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.)