Leaves burn to cinders
To sate an addiction
Ashes to be flicked off a cylinder,
Then to fall to the ground and be blown away
By a whimsical wind.
Who would weep for the tobacco leaves?
They who are birthed in a flourish of green to flower and seed,
Torn off, desiccated, and packed in the pulp of trees,
Then consumed in the flames of avarice
Let them take the airs away.
Do not forget,
They are of the Nightshade!
The collies have grown complacent
Their shepherd has gone to fat
His crook lost ages ago...
They play with the sheep,
But lead them nowhere.
They bark and snarl and nip at the heels,
And never al