The bitter taste of tobacco burns my tongue, not the taste of factories but a spiritual herb, nature sprung
Smoke in blue circles wafts about my head, I speak with spirits of the earth, planted now raised from the dead
Leaves pulled, cured and twisted into tarry ropes, chipped by knife into specks, for which a stained hand gropes
Rolled in dried corn husk, or smoked in briar pipe, separating out the hard stems and center stipe
Chard smell of visions, the smokey tongue of a muse, spews whisps of enlightenment, new views