The cigarette is less stale a breath of air
Than I get from this sad, tumid pairing.
I'd rather die of cancer in this lair
Than give my room a decent airing.

The pairing is me plus word processor.
Silent orison - the cursor's half reptile,
The dead still, bored stare. Half old professor
Judging as I lose whatever fragile

Word I had. So, regurgitate. No value
Or time. But with a fag, the cloud carries
Me saintlike over my own scar tissue -
On balance, transcend the coronary

The coughing and the cancer. The sweet dream
Of a smouldering shag plus nicotine.