Push for PORTER

izquierdaThe Good Old Haze derecha

Racker Donnelly

Do you remember the days, when the pub was a haze
You could knit a rug out of the fug
After a drag, on the umpteenth fag
You felt parched and sweaty
But to get as far as the bar you'd need a machete

Smoking fulfilled a pipe dream,
You were the cream In life's meringue
You were in the gang
Bewitched by the itch for a cigarette, you'd twitch and fret
For a single cig you'd pawn the pig
You'd forego a feed in your need for the weed
Pass up a shag for a drag on a fag
And wherever you went, and whatever you did
You'd a scarf of smoke like a Bisto kid

The flaming scratch, the joy of meeting your match
Like a bull on the pull, or a sporty gay man
I'm a forty-a-day man
The big cheese, the rasping wheeze
Now your gasp exceeds your grasp, Jeez
Friends recoil, fearful of catching halitosis by osmosis

Coughing staccato, red as tomato
Chest in a vice, not nice
But the coup-de-gras, the kiss on the ass
The diathetic diadem
Was the glass of brandy at breakfast to cut the phlegm

Oh boy, it's time you ceased
Time to slay the beast
You can't be a nico-teenager all your life
Cop on, get back on top, stop

Cold turkey, life is murky, jerky
But in a day, a week, ok a month
Horray, like Dorian Gray, you're pink and perky
Though every tissue cries, this not you, this not wise
Go back, wrong way, and you start to fray
But nope, farewell to the dope miasma
One way is hope, the other, asthma
Cut out the mope, you're more than plasma
You can do it, you can cope
Of your denomination, you're the pope

And I know this for I did it, just say "no"
Passive smoke is more than a joke
Bungs up the part between lungs and heart
It's not to be sniffed at, you're right to be miffed
It's like sharing a lift with a massive fart

Now you'd want to be wacko as Michael Jacko
To think of taking up tobacco
Or crazy like, what's-his-name, Salvador Dali
Or bold and brazen like Walter Raleigh
Sir baccy snorter, potato importer
That wally deserves a double damnin'
He gave us the fags and then the famine

The blessed Martin's, Micheál and Cullen
Shouldn't look so sullen
They got rid of the fags and the plastic bags
But yon jiggery pokery, pull-a-strokery, outdoor smokery
Is no more out, no more al-fresco
Than stout in a tin in a bargain bin in Superquin, or Tesco

But today, the floor that resembled gristle
Is now clean as a whistle
Walls less lacquered, staff less nackered
And for Jill and Jack pariah, the black mariah
The doctor was right
I'm on the doc's side, not the carbonmonox-side

(these 6 lines sung to the air of "Mountains Of Mourne")

He snuck out for a smoke and he's left his pint free
Haha, there's a temptation for you and for me
The market for ashtrays seems banjaxed, but then
They'd make beautiful bidets for Barbie and Ken
And with streets full of smokers, flushed out of their lair
You've to dive in the pub for a breath of fresh air