MY CIGARETTE.





Ma pauvre petite,

My little sweet,

Why do you cry?

Why this small tear,

So pure and clear,

In each blue eye?



"My cigarette--

I 'm smoking yet?"

(I'll be discreet.)

I toss it, see,

Away from me

Into the street.



You see I do

All things for you.

Come, let us sup.

(But, oh, what joy

To be that boy

Who picked it up.)



TOM HALL.





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