Newport Murder

You’re finished smoking, but

Newport is still going.

This is why Newports are murdered.
You take it personal.
Especially, if it’s popping off at the lip.
You might have to sizzle its tip.
Hear a fizz to the cinch.
Jab the stogie again,
make his body bend. Oh,
he’s out of shape?
Should’ve worked out, after that
work out again. Until he works out
in his head, that you ain’t to be fucked with.
Smother it. Make a pool
with your spit in the ash tray.
Drown the cig and escape
the crime scene, but come back.
In a few minutes, check that
saliva’s setting in,
-It’s a browning effect. Smells bad.
Honestly, we can skip that.
That was back then, in older days.
Warning, what you are about to learn
is not for the faint of heart.
This is graphic nature.
You may not be able to stomach this.
And if you’re a smoker,
you already got bad lungs,
this is bad lung steroid shit.
You want an intact liver?
Then don’t filter this.
Uncensored mature content.
So, 18 and under, however you got here
undo the process. You’ve been warned.
If you’re underage, still
blowing through my stop signs, remember
“Live fast, die young.”
If you’re of age,
blowing through my punctuation marks:
“Read fast, write dumb.”
You stopped then.
Rhetorical question: you mad?
Feeling emotional? Take a smoke break.
You don’t smoke? Take a smoke break.
Then, you can come back to learn.
If this was a sexual intercourse class,
then only All-star whores allowed.
Yea, advanced.
“Virgin lungs,” you know who you are.
Stop reading this in that virgin way and
incinerate your cherry today.
Now, welcome to “Newport Murder.”
You’ve tried putting your cigarette out
every which way, but still,
the process feels too drawn out. Wetting it,
can be too much, and it could get nasty.
This ain’t chewing tobacco. As smokers,
we don’t leave messes,
we evaporate just fine. Tighten up,
unless you have bronchitis;
that’s tight enough.
Your ash tray deserves better.
So, do better. Do what I do.
Become a decapitator and finish quick.
Get a surface that’s flat,
and wedge the head against it.
Lesson over. Do it right and
the ember should right roll off.
If your guillotine’s precise, the head
is still bright with life and isolated,
separate from the still body.
That’s how you get away with
Newport  murder.
No time. No mess. Guilty of what,
when you covered your tracks?
Even with a sorry ass public defender
and a judge named Murphy, at best,
you’ll get accessory to murder.
Even Murphy’s law,
after taking pictures of you smoking,
can’t put you at the scene of a crime.
Smoke in a No Smoking zone
and litter  next to a smoker’s pole,
and for the first time ever  be comfortable.
All these Newports,
who put those out? It was you,
and nobody knows.
Kudos to you, for taking action. Some can’t.
They throw the chance away,
and  because of them, there’s Newports
somewhere fumigating their butts.
That’s wack. You got what they lack.
They got male parts of bare minimum,
shriveled and barely hanging; sad gonads.
Your package is exclusive, it’s a big deal.
Strong and long with professional bounce;
your balls are BIG. Thats heavyweight.
They feather light. Wanting what you got.
But too ashamed to speak, so you went first.
“Ask me,” you said. Silent, still.
Shocked and surprised,
that you granted them permission.
This time, you demand it, “Ask!”
“How did you-” was all they said,
until you stopped their chirping.
Walk away and give them time.
A dumbass doesn’t know, right away,
they being dumb as shit.
P.S. Don’t get cocky. I made that mistake.
I felt invincible. I was high, outer spaced.
And wish I could’ve downshifted myself,
but with my hand on the stove, I got burnt.
Now I’m back down to Earth,
reminding you, settle for accessory.
I had my eyes on manslaughter,
or something in the first degree.
I got brave and went to kill with bare hands.
The pain was agony. Stayed a longtime.
I was caught red handed and received a fine on scene.

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