The Taste Of Cyanide Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

What can he resist? He's just a feeble man.
Who leers at all the ladies, big & small?
Tall or short, a scoundrel, he likes them all.
He quit smoking, but like a boomerang
He returns again and again because,
Because he enjoys each long, pungent kiss.
The taste of cyanide that can burn his lips
That gamble of not pulling the short straws.

What can he resist? He's just a feeble man.
Down the pub, necks as many as he can
He's what many might call a journeyman.
His mug is all over Instagram,
Thinks he's the bee's knees from a bygone age.
A likeable chap, some mothers might say.
But won't settle down, gone too far astray,
His looks are fading; longings disengage.

What can he resist on the homeless list?
Not those free soup kitchen meals, a blanket
Not those coins tossed aside on his jacket
Nor the knife at his throat, where men subsist.
What can he resist? He's just an ex-serviceman.
Done his best for Queen & Country, one time!
Now praying to survive the wintertime.
Find a warm bed, quit smoking, and drink his last dram.