When I was but a nipper, life was tough.
You couldn’t get a single ounce of gear.
Your parents felt your toys were fun enough.

They never knew the wonderment of weed,
and if they caught you having a sly puff,
they’d wallop you and make you sit and read.

I remember my elder brother, Wayne.
He used to get some solid for his meed
when ever the steamers came in from Spain.

He’d help them disembark it at the quay
and they would pay him nicely for his pain:
two pocketsful of burning heaven free!

We’d suck it on the coastal headland, late,
moonsplinters dancing on the treacly sea,
and I would get myself into a state

and laugh myself to sleep beneath the stars.
Remorse reminds me of my brother’s fate:
a life of toil in dingey, city bars.
These days my only vices are cigars.