When you’re waiting for the whistle and your foot is on the step, You bluff yourself, it’s lots of fun, and all the time you’re hep, To the fact that you may stop one ’fore you’ve gone a dozen feet, And you wonder what it feels like and your thoughts are far from sweet; Then you think about a little grave, with R.I.P. on top, And you know you’ve got to go across – altho’ you’d like to stop; When your backbone’s limp as water, and you’re bathed in icy sweat, Why, you’ll feel a lot more cheerful if you puff your cigarette.