Have swept the rooms where smoke still lingers)
And marked the rank unwholesome air,
The evidence of gin that’s there,
The upset trays that plainly speak
Of what has caused that pallid cheek;
And but for that strong stale cheroot
Which sickens now his very soul,
And but for that half-empty bowl,
Where sugar, limes, and rum to boot,
Appal the seedy gazers heart,