Mothball tweaker, mothball tweaker, it’s a shame you
raid the lady’s raiment to attain a pile
of camphor-gorged orbs that just might serve to maim you,
although, mothball tweaker, they sure make you smile!

When that pile of white pills bulges, mothball tweaker,
you are then ready to rend it all apart.
Vapor streams waft past your nasal doorstep;
this get-high fare drifts through nigh air.
You’ve been warned; still you steal, mothball tweaker,
those camphor orbs from wardrobes. Oh, when did this start?

I get riled when you start huffing, mothball tweaker—
solvents won’t solve problems; using them ain’t smart.
Vapor streams rife pass your rhinal doorstep;
this get-high fare makes my eye glare!
A brainstorm’s what you feel, mothball tweaker.
No need to cop it on the street, just shop Wal-Mart.

Mothball tweaker, mothball reeker.