THOSE ASHES.





Up to the frescoed ceiling

The smoke of my cigarette

In a sinuous spray is reeling,

Forming flower and minaret.



What delicious landscape floating

On perfumed wings I see;

Pale swans I am idly noting,

And queens robed in filagree.



I see such delicious faces

As ne'er man saw before,

And my fancy fondly chases

Sweet maids on a fairy shore.



Now to bits my air-castle crashes,

And those pictures I see no more;

My grandmother yells: "Them ashes--

Don't drop them on the floor!"



R.K. MUNKITTRICK.





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