But antis will croak, and the Plant have his joke,
And chaff, if ignited, must all end in smoke,
And the antis must soon end their moaning.
Three antis lay drunk on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam, as the sun arose;
And smokers are laughing and rubbing their hands,
To know they’re already relieved of their foes.
For Observers will talk, and the Plant doesn’t sleep;
Though tough be the job, ’tis amusing to keep
All the anti-Tobaccoites moaning.