In the lounge room of my childhood
there’s this little box made of wood,
and when I open it’s varnished lid
up pops a proudly painted stork.
A cigarette wedged in his beak
with the promise of something good.
“Care for a Peter Stuyvesant?
They’re tailor made for the Jet-Set!
You’ve been on a plane,
and you’re a big boy now,
all of nine, so try one of mine.
You’ll find the taste most pleasant.
Ignition … prepare for take-off.
Never mind the cough.
You’ll soon be feeling fine.”