Behind thy back shall laugh and hoot at thee.
Like the red beet-root all thy face shall be;
That box of lights set thy coat tails on fire,
And burnt thee bare. Tarry till daylight flee.
This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of the missus: oh! her tongue
Shall let thee rest not, e’en upon thy bed;
For that her curtains at the window hung,
Of stale smoke smelling, fill her soul with dread.
With mutton cold thou shalt be often fed,