The cigar

When I was eight my father left his suit coat in the hall;

I took from it a Partagas; it made me feel quite tall.

Down into the basement I did creep with my import;

hoping it would prove to be a masculine passport.

I lit the thing three times before it gave off any smoke.

I blew great clouds of yellow grey, and then began to choke.

My tongue was clotted with a taste of ashes, and my throat

felt as if it had been kicked by some large billy goat.

I thought the floor was heaving and my eyes commenced to tear.

Up the stairs I staggered; to the bathroom I did steer.

Today when I read stories of some stogie’s subtle flavors,

I reach into my pocket for a pineapple Life Savers.

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I don't want to be loved; I just want to be trending.