You said you wanted to share a drink with me.
But when we had the chance, you wouldn't let me drink.
Now here I am, bottle in hand, wishing you were here.
You asked me what I thought of you wanting to pick up smoking again.
You resisted the urge, because I told you not to.
Now here I am, wondering if a drag could ease the pain.
Isn't it ironic how things go around?
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