Address to a cigarette

In awe of your tubular paper physique,
Stuffed tight with brown leaves and a calming mystique,
You tempt my black lungs when I've had a hard week.
You sell me death,
You yellow my teeth and you make my breath reek,
And me out of breath.

I tap your thin body on my Ikea table,
You light up my life when I light you. You're able
To make such a loser feel like a Clark Gable.
I drink your cloud.
You go well with lager, a night-in with cable,
And that's allowed.

Soldiers who fight for the globe's common goal,
Future world leaders, sacked miners of coal,
Fuelled by inhaling your tonic for the soul,
Our love is true,
Health Ministers armed with results of a poll
Haven't got a clue.