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  • Writer's pictureAnnika Smits

Magic Cig'ret

Wyatt and Irma were not very rich;

He sold scrap metal and she was a witch;

They weren’t well off by any old means,

And they’d’ve been better if it weren’t for the beans.

The beans in question were def’nitely magic;

Belonged to a giant whose death was most tragic.

A giant stalk would serve the paupers no use–

So said Wyatt, “Imma use’m buy cig’rets n’ shoes”

Upon reaching the market Wyatt searched for a stall

That wouldn’t, he hoped, demean him at all;

Excited, he saw one and yelled crudely with glee,

“Wut kin you gimme fer these fucken’ beans?”

Came the response from the shopkeep in perfect rhyme,

Rehearsed from decades of white collar crime;

“The awful profanity spewn from your mouth

Resembles dialectically the American South, 

and therefore I am making class based assumptions about you.

Regardless, I will give you a cigarette that cannot be smoked,

Or the powers of hell shall fast be evoked, and certainly that’s not something you want to happen; but it’s hard to determine, because the aforementioned assumptions I made about your place of origin and upbringing lead me to believe that your intelligence is limited.”

“How dare you make ‘ssumptions ‘bout me and my class?

You, whose rhymin’ ‘sembles that of an ass?

My di’lect’s a result of socio-geographical patterns,

S’got nothin’ to do with bein’ a person that learns”

In an act of defiance so triumphantly pointless

He lit the dart while applying some ointment,

As the balm touched his skin and the smoke touched his lips,

The moon turned to blood and the earth deftly split;

Out from the crevasse rode four shrouded equestrians

Bearing the names; War, Death, Conquest, and Pestilence. 

In unison they roared, “Earth will atone for their sins”

Wyatt muttered, Fuckin’ cig’ret, ‘bout time I got into Zyns.”

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