With fragrant ’Bacca ’neath the growing trees,
To think of what we pay for this one thing,
The dearest physic for our miseries.
For, at each puff, the weeping smoker sees
His wreath fly up, away, and higher, higher,
Till thoughts of bankruptcy do make him freeze.
This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of the fusees: Some won’t light,
And some will spit out fire upon the hands;
The wretch who sells them slinketh in the night,