When tigers used to smoke,

we prowled the streets

with tiger-eyed abandon.

In youth, any stripe is possible.

With Red Stripe and menthols,

out to see the bands, man,

or passing a bottle between our paws

as some slow, sad country song

growled from the speakers.

I’d like to have a beer again,

when tigers smoke.

Where have you gone?

I keep my distance from the claws;

but I think I see a pack in its paws,

and matches there again.

The stripes have changed,

but he still lights up

when you’re around.