Mark her as she stands,
Blue eyes bright, match alight,
Shielding with her hands
The growing flame,
Holding to her lips, where the bee, love, sips,
The fragrant pleasure of man’s leisure,
Cigarette by name.
There! it makes her cough.
If she smoke, must she choke
When blue whirls come off?
Now she denies
The cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss,
Holds it burning, to ash turning,
Till at last it dies.
Thus she lit my heart,
By the fell magic spell
Of love’s witching art,
And just as I
Burned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire,
Let my yearning and heart-burning
Into ashes die.