This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of sad Antis: Every day
They will prognosticate thy doom, and tell
Where thou art going to at last, and say
The place is warm and undesirable.
And swear that for a mile thy clothes do smell;
And preach to thee till thy whole soul doth tire;
Then, going, groan—just for a parting knell.
This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of the taxes: Spoiled is Spring,