Here is a half assed poem I just wrote. Though the language is not much to speak of, I hope you enjoy the sentiment.
Who will we call when we die of smoke?
When no remedies there to fix what we broke.
Then we will feel the fresh air's choke,
Of King James the First! (a miserable moke)
That Counterblaste King of Stuart land,
Saves us all with his potentate hand.
By the time that devil Raleigh drew near,
Was James ready to strike us with fear.
'Twas that ruler that started on health,
So we can live longer in miserable wealth.
A wealth we would like to indulge ourselves in,
Only to find that these things are sin.
Call on him, and a seance conduct,
For severe lectures, the ghost instructs.
But if you wish to be comfortably old,
Join for a smoke in the unforgiving cold.
"Sir Walter Raleigh, name of worth!
How sweet for thee to know.
King James who never smoked on earth,
Is smoking down below!"