Lounge the indolent, swarthy men,
Moving sluggishly now and then
Better to scan their dicing throws
Under their low-tipped sombreros.
But, for the most, content to lie
Drowsing the listless hours by,
Watching, each, as the thin, blue jet
Curls from his drooping cigarette.
All day long, from the dawn's first flush
When the mass is said in the morning hush