I haven't seen this mentioned that Proper Little Madams used to do.

People Who Smoke.

People who smoke:
The thought of nicotine-crazed junkies makes me choke.
They hack and cough and splutter before they're halfway out of bed.
Why don't they get the job done properly and drop dead.
The way they rave,
If they're denied the noxious poison that they crave.
They suffer more horrific symptoms than a diver with the bends,
And crawl on hands and knees through gutters for dog-ends.

To some vast plain,
They should be forcibly removed by cattle-train,
And in a mighty conflagration of burning tyres and acrid smoke,
They should be made to puff and pant until they choke.
But no such luck.
They come round to my house for tea and then light up.
They wave their obscene cancer sticks around the house, and when they're gone,
For seven days the putrid perfume lingers on.

CH.
Their bloodshot eyes, their sickly mien,
They should be made to ring a bell and shout "Unclean."

Caligula:
I bet he always smoked a whacking great cigar.
The Boston Strangler and Crippen, all those mad psychotic slags,
Before they maimed and killed, I bet they had a drag.
Speaking of death,
The average smoker will request with his last breath,
Not to be buried underground, where worms will rot him into mash,
But to be burned so he can turn to smoke and ash.

CH.
Their bloodshot eyes, their sickly mien,
They should be made to ring a bell and shout "Unclean."

Smoking's not nice.
The unsophisticated anti-social vice.
They can keep their filthy roll-ups, shag tobacco, Cuban whiffs,
I'm getting desperate for some coke or glue to sniff.