In prison cell, at early twilight,
Smoking Foesters "Best Cigar,"
Sat a convict, little dreaming
Aught his perfect bliss could mar.
Round the cell-block, slowly ambling,
Came a "Screw," on mischief bent,
And his wide, expanded nostrils
Quickly inhaled the welcome scent.
Wave on wave, thro' latticed iron,
Smoky clouds rose thick and high,
And the happy convict murmured:
"Go, ye cloudlets, greet the sky!"
But the cloudlets, incense laden,
Lingered near the oaken floor,
Till the "Screw," with cat-like motion,
Stood before the smoker's door.
In the spittoon, charred and sputtering,
Lay the smoker's joy and pride;