The last smoker

A poem about the last smoker on Earth

The last weed smoked of any type

On Earth was Bert’s. He smoked a pipe,

Not smack or crack or even whacky,

Bert was quite content with baccy.

Lacking it one day, he chose

To smoke some petals from a rose.

He picked enough to pack and fill

The briar’s bowl, then lit a spill,

Igniting, as he should have feared,

Both petals and his ample beard.

Now roses mark the smouldering grave

Of one the world had tried to save

And glowing words from Eliot

Sum up poor Bert’s unhappy lot,

To wit: ‘Ash on an old man’s sleeve

Is all the ash burnt roses leave.’