And counts his fortune in far, foreign lands
Where police are not, and where are no cab-stands,
While we still on his head heap curses dire
And blame the makers of the various brands.
This is a cause of every smoker’s ire.
The burden of fierce headaches: When we must
Forsake the weed, altho’ ’tis our delight,
When all our eyes seem red with blinding dust,
And on our head a weight hangs day and night,
And our red faces, lo! are bloodless white;