I'm getting sick of Manchester,
I'm gonna move to Riga.
You may not like the sound of it
But I'm actually quite eager.

I'll quit my job and leave my friends,
Shove all my stuff in bags,
Depart this blasted sceptred isle 
To get some cut-price fags.

I want to smoke without the fear
Of spending all my cash
On buying twenty B&H
and ending up with ash.

My chest may wheeze and rattle
And my lungs won't be too healthy,
But at least I'll know that, when I go,
I'll still be fairly wealthy.