Mr. Bummed-A-Light-And-The-Lighter-Too

Lyrics

Here he comes.
Shoulders loose, a practised kind of casual.
Leans against the brick wall outside The Lark, 8:17 PM.
He scans the smokers, not for a friend, but for a mark.
A friendly eye. A new jacket.
He makes his move, a little shuffle in the cold.
A smile that says we're all in this together.
"Hey man," he says, "got a light?"

And there's the transaction.
The small kindness of a stranger.
The orange Bic, full of fuel, passes from one hand to the other.
A thumb, a flick, a flame.
But the return trip never happens.
It's the palm, then the pocket.
A magic trick nobody asked to see.
A little theft dressed up as a friendly chat.

The cigarette lit, he holds your gaze.
A puff of smoke, a moment of shared... something.
"Man, I appreciate that. Mind if I bum one of those?"
And you're feeling generous now, you're in the club.
You tap out a Marlboro, place it in his hand.
He nods, a real sincere nod.
"Thanks, brother."
Then his fingers, quick and sure, take a second one.
"For the road," he says, and turns away.

And there's the transaction.
The small kindness of a stranger.
The orange Bic, full of fuel, is already in another post code.
A thumb, a flick, a flame that isn't yours.
But the return trip never happens.
It's the palm, then the pocket.
A magic trick nobody asked to see.
A little theft dressed up as a friendly chat.

It's not about the dollar fifty for the lighter.
Or the seventy cents for the smokes.
It's the principle of the thing.
The smooth, ungreased way he violates the code.
I bet he has a drawer at home.
A pile of plastic, every color.
Each one a story of a conversation he cut short.
Each one a tiny, won battle against a world that owes him.

He's halfway down the block now.
You hear it, just once.
His flame.
Your lighter.