A burden with full fruit of mild swearing:
We drop the pipe to drop a gentle curse,
Six score between the morn and evening.
The quivering of the glands, the shuddering,
The wheezy grunts with which we do respire,
Makes “weed” seem horrid and a treacherous thing.
This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of burnt breeches: Nay, sit down;
Cover thyself and sleep; for verily
The market women all about the town