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.)