When I was eight my father left his suit coat in the hall;
I took from it a Partagas; it made me feel quite tall.
Down into the basement I did creep with my import;
hoping it would prove to be a masculine passport.
I lit the thing three times before it gave off any smoke.
I blew great clouds of yellow grey, and then began to choke.
My tongue was clotted with a taste of ashes, and my throat
felt as if it had been kicked by some large billy goat.
I thought the floor was heaving and my eyes commenced to tear.
Up the stairs I staggered; to the bathroom I did steer.
Today when I read stories of some stogie’s subtle flavors,
I reach into my pocket for a pineapple Life Savers.