Smoke

The innocent lass quotidianly asks 'him',why do you like the smoke?
The patriarch however, fails to poke.
His remorseful consciousness fails to give a reaction
But the convention remains pursued...
The 'filter tip' remains, to be the monarch
The brawl of reducing perpetuates.
From changing of 'brands', to consciously enumerating,
Trying out medication; to holding breath for intervals...
The squabble still rules, and overrules
'My man' looks around for a consolation.
Asks me, 'Haven't I reduced the count?'
I sentiently say,'Probably'
However pity world, still remain the agony-aunts
They admonish, lead to his exasperation,
And the 'filter-tip' convincingly wins over him yet again, and always...