I see him sitting
On the dark armchair
With wreaths of smoke
Crowning his head
To assure his breath
And the dying cigarette
A familiar stranger
Hurries with tea
‘Vintage musings
Never leaning to gossip.’
With every cough
You wrench
A part of me
Must I stay
Till it would
No longer be?
But my dear cigar
One word to you,
Don’t drag my friend
Along with you!
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