Starting at Singapore it smelled of opium 
The good Englishman knew what he was doing 
At world conferences he thundered 
Against the secret drug-lords 
And in his colonies every port 
sent up a cloud of authorized smoke 
with an official number and a juicy franchise. 
The official gentleman in London 
dressed like a spotless nightingale 
(with striped pants and a shirt starched into armor) 
A nightingale trilling against the pusher 
in the shadows. 
But here in the Orient 
the gentleman unmasked himself 
and sold lethargy on every corner.