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Looks like there's an industry that takes you to your final breath,
Still they're pleading innocent while causing menthol-flavoured death,
You're the butt of their joke, keep laughing till you choke,
They filter the truth, resorting to such,
Ruthless measures as peer pressure,

Looks like there's an industry whose king size lobby cracks the whip,
Pushers, whose junkies all insist they'd rather fight than switch,
The money you've burned, on the ashes that you've earned/urned,
Proves you'll never quit, so get a lung little stogie,
It's in vogue,

"We see nothing wrong as long as the cash is flowing,
Our future's bright from all of the gaspers glowing,
Facts disappear, second hand smoke and mirrors has been
Our stock in trade for years..."

Well it looks like there's an industry concealing craven cowardice,
How did Walter Raleigh ever talk us into all of this?
You cancertainly stop temporarily,
But still you'll return to the comfort of the,
Burning embers, you remember.



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T.C. Folkpunk Toronto, Ontario

One guy with a guitar and a notebook full of lyrics.

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