A Smoker's Tune: Stuck in the Middle Again
If you're a smoker, the lyrics to this famous song are meaningful in a completely different way:
"Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,
'Cause I don't think that I can take anymore
Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you."
The clowns to the left of me are the ones who say, "Just have a cigarette. You know you want one. What difference does it make? They could drop the bomb tomorrow and, if you'd quit smoking years before, wouldn't your last thought be, "Well, CRAP...why did I do that? Just THINK of how many cigarettes you could have smoked...and all for nothing!" That's the DEVIL talking, and his pitchfork hurts!
The Jokers to the right, if you're still a smoker, are those who have convinced you that the evil weed won't affect you. Your cough and sputter are just nature's way of hawking up what needs to come out. Nevermind that people who don't smoke don't have that cough. We've just rationalized that everyone sounds like Barry White with that low, bass voice that's supposed to be so sexy. He's hawkin' it up before he sits at the microphone, I can guarantee you that.
The angels are the ones who say to you, "Just go at your own speed. Smoke if you must, but you can quit and there are plenty of us up here who can help you do it." This is WAR AND PEACE baby. GOOD vs. EVIL, and aside from all the terrible things that the devil wreaks in the world, those angels are with us. They're sitting on our right shoulders, ever patient, patting us on the back when we are doing all the right things, with just a tap to the side of our neck to remind us of our own strength.
Of course, the devil is perched on the left shoulder, and he's always whispering in our ear, jabbing that fork into the other side of our neck and the cause of all of our bad behavior. He's the one who wants to smell the smoke, to feel the flame. He even tells you that he likes the sound of that Zippo lighter when you fire it up against the soft paper around the tobacco. He likes the way the smoke curls off the end of the cigarette and tells you that no one else can smell that foul odor that settles in your hair and your clothes and announces that you're weak and still smoking to anyone who comes near you.
So, you're ‘stuck in the middle again.' You'd rather wear the soft, white, flowing chiffon robe than the too-tight, flaming-red leotard and leggings that he provides, so if fashion is any indication, I'm going with the angel and her wardrobe! Style is everything, afterall.