What can be said of the cigarettes smoked
prop for a joke or a mark on the clock
If I stopped would the bus [bad word] Would the dawn ever kiss me forgivingly knowing what’s done 
Would the drivel make scribble, make sense and then song
Would the woodbines denied black another man’s lungs
Perverse as it may sound I sometimes believe
The tip to my lips just reminds me to breathe

What can be said of the whiskey and wine
Random abandon or ballast for joy
That was scuppered with [bad word] Little more than a boy 
And besides I’m in [bad word] I’m reaching the age when decisions are made on the life and the liver
And I'm sure, last ditch that I'll ask for more time 
But Mother forgive me
I still want a bottle of good Irish whiskey
And a bundle of smokes in my grave

But there isn’t words yet for [bad word] I get
From the gentle lunette at the top of the nape of the neck that I wake to
And where are the words for the leap in my chest
When mischief appears either side of the scar on your nose
Made by a rose thorn
So you claim 
By a rose thorn