Stop trying to pretend that you are going to stop;
you're either a smoker or you're not.
You will keep on smoking for the rest of your life,
and then you'll get cancer and then you'll die.

I can stop whenever I please and anyway,
I'm immune to emphysema and heart disease.
My diary says tomorrow is the day I quit
and I'm going to stick with that.

I'll work my way down to the end of this pack,
and then I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back again.

Little itches need no stitches but they bury you,
if you keep on scratching you'll go right through.
Whiskey for the amputee is just the thing,
to ease the sting.

I'll work my way down to the end of this pack,
and then I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back again.

I've got a list of things to get round to.
I've got a list of all the things I shouldn't do.
I know it by heart, I've got the damn thing in my pocket,
but despite myself it's the middle of the night and I am round at your house again,

trying to pretend that I am going to stop.
I'm either a smoker or I'm not…
You will keep on smoking for the rest of my life,
and don't I know it:
my favourite fatal weakness.

I'll work my way down to the end of this pack,
and then I'll leave this place and I'm never coming back again.

I'll see you around, somewhere in town,
or next time I'm down,
probably right here.