WIND BLOWN WOLD.

Roll me a thingarette
And I’ll smoke it where I wish,
Not where no one knows its name anymore,
Or frowns upon it or
Can’t bring themselves to receive it.
Wonder what its tax revenue is though,
And where that figure will come from
Once the morons have banned it
Completely; them I suppose, all
Covered in fragrance.
Something’s got to kill me,
So if this kills me then it kills me;
Better than living an artificial
Extension kind of existence
And catching some unmoveable strain
In a hospital that hasn’t got any investment.
Should I go on because I’m staying here,
As I’m wanted for crimes
Against flooring,
And a flooding of findings
Is breaking the door in,
With flags and flames,
And boots and soil,
And boiling up my blood.
You’ll be needing me
For exhibition pieces
If you continue like this;
Excuse me,
But I’m not going out like that,
I’m still enjoying myself.