My Cigarette.
Reading edition
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.)