Homegrown Smoke

he's that kind of bloke
he grows his own smoke
he smokes what he grows
and everyone knows
which way his wind blows
it goes up his nose
all wrapped in his cloak
amongst proper folk

he's a Rutherford lad
takes after his dad
said goodbye to Mum
with a pat on the bum
seemed queerish to some
given all that they'd had
seemed a bit of a cad
now he drives himself mad
you can't hear a croak
through his thick homegrown smoke

he's gone round the bend
tripping through the West End
when he's blue, through and through
then he's off to the loo
what a fine how-d'ya-do
not a shilling to spend
makes his own favorite blend
as though he never spoke
he's that kind of bloke

his sun has gone down
the farm gone to town
eyes pink and glazed
with a hypnotic gaze
forever amazed
and playing the clown
keep swimming, don't drown
with a steady backstroke
through his fog of gray smoke

but sometimes a tear
reminds you he's here
keep a stiff upper lip
mustn't let the mask slip
so tighten your grip
if you give in to fear
then you're back in last year
back when you awoke
all bandaged and broke
do loosen the yoke
go get lost in your smoke