Sick little boy

Sick Little Boy Here he stands, Sick little boy, Shaking to the core. He welcomes the earthquake, The eruption within His blackened chest Every morning. Wakes up early for it, Before the rest. Though fit of cough, Comes far too soon, He shan’t notice, As he glides to the moon. Passing through the orbit, Sees a satellite or two. But as the sweat and tremors subside, And back to earth this child glides, He always thinks, ‘This could be his last time’. For astronaut, this boy is not, This boy enjoys a little crack rock. ‘Not an addict’ though, he tells himself. But, as for tomorrow; Back to Earth, this child won’t glide, For tomorrow on his way up, This child will die. Twisting two times upon the door lock, Sneakily, he loads his pipe with his rock, And gives life to spark and flame With a flick of a finger. With a flick of a finger, Back to earth this child won’t glide. With a flick of a finger, This child will die. With a flick of a finger This child will rot, With a flick of a finger Might as well have been a Glock. Adam Al-Samarae (c) 2011