You've just gotta tip it upside-down,
Inside out, 'cause it burns better that way;
Fiery hems licking out into dark, vacant air,
Such brilliant knitted whimsy.
You've just gotta strike a match,
The sharp, crisp bite
Of the head of a match against
Rough, blood-brown strike pads.
You've just gotta feel it,
Feel it tingle in your bone marrow as you hear it;
The rip against the air as the lighter clicks, clicks, clicks,
Into tobacco-tickling petals of captured sunlight.
You're gonna have to lose your sense of smell
Cause normality just ain't good enough anymore,
And no wilting strand of glowing plastic
will wrinkle your nose again.
You're gonna have to pinch gritty blisters
With a smile on your face,
'cause all of it was worth that bloody burn.
You're gonna have to walk out of burning streets
Like you don't give a fuck,
And smoke is the only air you breathe.