Swan in the mouth, Rizla in the hand, Hand in the baccy pouch, Paralytic on the couch. Jazz in the background, Ceiling swirling hard, Smoker’s bag is empty, She's looking pretty scanty. Rollie in the mouth, Smirnoff on the floor, My lighter’s on the table, Reach ain’t that stable. Clipper in the hand, Mouth feeling dry, Ah, you gotta be shitting, I’ll be gypsy flicking. Lungs are getting black, Morals are failing, lax, Smoke is in the air, Head back in despair. Filter staining yellow, Niccy rush maxed, The door’s just ajar, Heading out to my car. Keys in the ignition, Clumsy ass in the seat, Can’t swallow my pride, I'm driving for suicide. Red lights can’t stop me, It’s past half ten, Screechin’ round’ the bend, Feel I’m near the end. Car’s a total write off, But my target’s just in sight, Stumblin’ into the corner store door, A snore, a bore, a fuckin’ chore. Hands on the counter, Feel I’m gonna’ hurl, I snatch a look at Tim, He’s lookin’ pretty grim, ‘Hey, Jack, what’ll it be ? What do you be needin’ ?’ I puke, then call the shot, But my bloody baccy, he ain’t got. Middle finger at the prick, Turn away to leave, Going for a walk, No time to talk. River cool and black, Train speedin’ down the track, What a day, what a day, what a day, But today ain’t the day to pray. I’m sick of all the noise, I’m sick of fancy toys, I won’t miss the invoice, But, man, will I miss my dearest darling, My sexy, sexy ‘Cutter’s Choice’.