(Music: Starts with a lone, melancholic acoustic guitar riff, simple and repeating. Maybe in a minor key. A soft bass line enters.)

(Verse 1 - Spoken Word, almost conversational over the music)
You remember that scene in Kes? The fella getting caught?
Well, our head of house, a spinster, she taught…
A different technique. No hand out flat for her.
She’d have you bent over, a blur of grey flannel and fur.
Three of the best, for a Players Number Six…
And for the crime of wanting a different air to breathe in.

(Music: The band kicks in – drums, a fuller guitar sound, driving and rhythmic)

(Chorus - Sung, with a punchy, anthemic quality)
And it’s… EMPTY YOUR POCKETS!
Onto this table, now, BOY!
AND THE CIGARETTES!
(I can see your stupid joy)
I’ve said this before…
And I’ll say it again…
This is going to hurt me…
More than it hurts you, my friend.

(Verse 2 - Sung, with a sneering, narrative vocal style)
The worst part weren't the stripes, the temporary pain
Or walking home in the pissing-down rain.
It was the ledger she kept, bound in black, you see,
The official record of a git like me.
She’d enter the date with a victorious scratch…
Three for the smoking, three for the latch.

(Chorus - Sung with more intensity)
Oh, EMPTY YOUR POCKETS!
Onto this table, now, BOY!
AND THE CIGARETTES!
(I can see your stupid joy)
I’ve said this before…
And I’ll say it again…
This is going to hurt me…
More than it hurts you, my friend.

(Bridge - Music drops back, becomes more sparse and tense)
There was a leaderboard, unofficial, in the back of my brain.
A chart of shame to measure the pain.
Some other bugger, he beat me to third…
A minor defeat, absolutely absurd.
But I held the top spots, I was number one and two…
And I had fourth place sewn up, too.

(Spoken Word - Music is very minimal, just a faint guitar chord)
A champion… Prolific, she said.
And she smiled when she said it.
I think she enjoyed it.
I really think she enjoyed it.

(Guitar builds back up, feedback whines)

(Final Chorus - Raw, shouted, almost punk)
SO EMPTY YOUR POCKETS!
ONTO THIS TABLE NOW!
AND THE BLOODY CIGARETTES!
I DON'T CARE HOW OR WHERE OR WHEN!
I’VE SAID THIS BEFORE!
AND I’LL SAY IT AGAIN!
THIS IS GOING TO HURT…

(Outro - Music cuts abruptly, leaving only a humming amplifier and the last line delivered with cold, spoken finality)
…It’s going to hurt you, boy.

(Silence)
