On T.V. I see the poppies grow
Between the stalks I see the ghosts
Acquaintances, lovers, enemies, friends
Strange that an innocent plant
Brought about​ their ends

Many times it nearly killed me too
Slumped, choking, pin-eyed, turning blue
But I managed to swim against the stream
Pulled myself painfully out of the dream​

Too many I knew didn't survive
Their families crying at the grave side
The earth fell to the coffin from out of their hands​
Because of a plant that grows in Afghanistan

Struggling farmers grow it to keep their families alive
Smugglers carry it across the waters wide
Every mile that it travels, the price it inflates
It ends up on an English council estate

Shoplifters and burglars walk the grey, rainy streets
When darkness comes the working girls pound their beat
Warily watching​ through windows​
The dealers do what they can
Selling powder from a plant that grows in Afghanistan