I’m the guy who does the pictures on cigarette packs Of fathers blowing smoke in their kids’ faces

And sometimes lungs all tarred and black

This job has me going some wonderful places

To morgues and to the doctors

Or some small-town dentist

To gawp at the teeth of a washed-up rocker

Or look at some organs with the mortician’s apprentice.

I’m the guy who gives you the warning

In big capitals like I’m right there shouting

When you take a drag between your yawning

Not picking up what I’m spouting

This will kill you unless you’re lucky

And you might dodge the mouth cancer

Which you will - because you’re rather plucky The real deal, not like the others, a real chancer.

I’m the guy who smokes now and again

Socially of course, not like a reclusive smokestack

Blowing smog through my empty windowpane No I much prefer in the beer garden out the back Of the musty pub down the road

My little respite from the daily graft

An old shoulder that takes the load

Of my tireless art, my unsung craft.