Volume 99 — THE LARGE CIGAR.

You lie on the oaken mantle-shelf, A cigar of high degree, An old cigar, a large cigar, A cigar that was given to me. The house-flies bite you day by day— Bite you, and kick, and sigh— And I do not know what the insects say, But they creep away and die. My friends they take you gently up, And lay you gently down; They never saw a weed so big, Or quite so deadly brown. They, as a rule, smoke anything They pick up free of charge; But they leave you to rest while the bulbuls sing Through the night, my own, my large! The dust lies thick on your bloated form, And the year draws to its close, And the baccy-jar's been emptied—by My laundress, I suppose. Smokeless and hopeless, with reeling brain, I turn to the oaken shelf, And take you down, while my hot tears rain, And smoke you, you brute, myself.