Ashtray

The ashtray sits silently,
like a backbencher, contented
comfortable, unmoving, unquestioning
full of the ash of old ideas,
of those sent to the furnace
in service of the rational worship
promoted by the priests of profit
Tired yellowy butts have had it,
their strength gone, idealism
never to be smoked again, unless
desperation takes an addictive hold

Meanwhile, drifting smoke lingers lazily
as newly rolled efforts burn out,
with the ashtray impervious to all
a symptom of silly addiction
encouraged by devious designers of deceit,
who all the while dissembling, manage
to float on the tide of opinion
accepting calls for filters, lower tar
never admitting the cause of the cancer
which lies firmly entrenched, encased
in the glitzy, glass, even stone ash trays
releasing the sickly smelling stupor