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.)

TOM HALL.