I'd died and gone to heaven high.
The shock had not worn off me yet.
What choice was there but to comply?
I sure could use a cigarette.
No butts were anywhere in sight.
Those doctors told me I should quit.
Unliving proof that they were right,
I sweated through my nicky fit.
St. Peter popped out of thin air.
Being a nervous newly dead,
I asked him if he had a square.
St. Peter turned to me and said,

'By God, no smoking. Hear this well -'
'If you must smoke, then go to hell.'

Ima Ryma

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cold-turkey-or-else/