A full pack of twenty, oh what joy Now down to nineteen, I still feel buoyed There's now eighteen of the precious white sticks But who's counting, they're really not worth a nick
Seventeen left, still quite a few to go Seventeen sticks of poison, that's quite a show Down to sixteen now, a small hole starts to appear Sixteen of the precious white sticks I hold so very dear
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven I now no longer feel that I am in heaven Because I barely have left now more than half a pack Of those little white sticks which keep me on the rack
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four Now is when you'll see me walking out the door To buy some more cigarettes, I cannot go too low For I must always see the end of a cigarette glow
Cigarette addiction is very much a counting game But to count something of no value is a real, real shame Because a false value to it will be given And counting the blasted things is now what keeps me driven