just imitating a spokesmascot for a social mirage.
You listened to his song and dance,
and now he dances on your back all day,
your life shortening to the time between fixes.
Of course, these days,
that monkey no longer pretends to be your friend.
You're old enough to know better,
but still act like you're too young to care.
Even as the monkey's dance ages you beyond your years.
Will you let that monkey ride you into an oxygen mask?
The monkey won't be the one struggling to stay alive
from one breath to the next.
The monkey will still be there,
having lost any hint of innocence.
The monkey will still be there, laughing.
Banging cymbals no one else can hear
to celebrate as you draw your last, ragged breath.
To seal the deal as you're buried in an ashtray.
Brought to you by Big Tobacco, buying the rest of your life from you, one pack at a time. :(
Dedicated to my grandmother. I spent my childhood watching her die a slow lingering death from emphysema, from the same pack-a-day smoking that turned my grandfather's voice to gravel. Even my earliest memories of her, she was already frail and sickly, and by the time I was in the fourth grade, it had already reduced her to a decrepit monkey skeleton in an oxygen mask. She was a kind, yet sad, woman, already understanding that she wouldn't live to see any of her grandchildren graduate, or get married, or embark on any of life's other paths.
Sadly, a quarter century later, Hollywood still stinks like an ashtray at certain times of the day, and I force myself not to look at faces inhaling death and cancer, as every one of them starts look like my grandmother if I gaze long enough.