Back in those days

you could smoke in the pubs,

we’d suck on those sticks to our finger tips

then casually, carelessly drop the stubs

and twist them into the floor with our feet,

openly, brazenly, never discreet.

The stench of burning carpet, the smell of spilt ale

would meet in a plume of noxious gas,

fetid, fusty and stale;

like a fart in a working man’s café.

A flo...

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