I’ve questioned the attraction and the stoic satisfaction

Of gaspers dense in doorways as they draw narcotic drags

But once you’ve got the taste of tar, Hell, I’d walk to Zanzibar

In snow and wind and rain to smoke a fag.

There are pleasures twice as nice as the rarest Indian spice

Contained within each single stick the advertisers brag;

For the nectar of the Gods I will join those silly sods

In snow and wind and rain to smoke a fag.

I’ve done my share of camping and over moors been tramping

And gazed up at the planets from inside my sleeping bag,

But these days I’m not a scout and I’ll only venture out

In snow and wind and rain to smoke a fag.

When I was of younger age I have made my way backstage

When concerts of Sinatra and The Beatles I could blag

But Glastonbury’s no good cos I’ll only stand in mud

Or snow and wind and rain to smoke a fag.

I’ve been a rough-necked bugger, climbing mountains, playing rugger

But as you get much older then your hardiness will flag

Al fresco sports I’ve banned; now the only time I’ll stand

In snow and wind and rain’s to smoke a fag.

I used to grunt and grind in the grass but now I find

I need the warmth and comfort of my bedroom for a shag

If you’re offering, then “Yes please”, but inside;  I only freeze

My bollocks off in snow to smoke a fag.

So spare us all your pity as you spot us in the city

Soaked and frozen stiff outside an office or a bar

For you fail to understand the lure of contraband -

The sexiness of nicotine and tar.