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. )