THOSE ASHES.
Reading edition
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.