He would pass, p’raps never more!
Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded
With the smoke of vile tobacco—this was worse than all before;
“Smith!” I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive,
For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor);
“Recollect it’s after midnight, are you going?—mind the floor.”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”
“Smith!” I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers flowing),
“If you want a bed, you know there’s quite a nice hotel next door,
Very cheap. I’m ill—and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking