Please stub your tongue out this instant;
Please take the charm from your lips.
All these mirrors. this smoke:
They are making me choke.
I'm through with your well-filtered tips.
Please to oblige me: don't light up
With ardour. I'm through with the stuff.
Roll up with a grin,
And expect I'll breathe in?
No slogans, no powder, no puff.
The view from the bridge may seem clearer;
As a salesman, you might not be dead.
But my throat starts to itch
When your low-tar, high pitch
Starts to charm its way into my head.
You're running new smoke rings around me?
No thank you. It's all such a drag.
I'm protecting my lungs
From your fur-coated tongues.
Dear prefect, I won't be your fag.