Just a Cigaret

Just a Cigaret I found him in a prison cell, A felon doomed to die; And he hung his head; Nor a word he said, As I simply asked him "Why?" At first the question seemed in vain, For when at last he spoke, His muscles twitched, And his fingers itched: "Wait, pal, till I've had a smoke." From the fuming fag he drew long and deep, Till his breath came a burning hiss, And the short tip fell To the floor of the cell. Then he pointed and muttered: "This!" "Don't laugh!" he cried, as I looked askance, "I'm tellin' you on d' square. No, I don't mean The nicotine, But the devil that's lurking there. "I was drunk the night I killed Jimmy Dunn: And the rest — well, I forget. But I never knew The taste of brew, Till I'd smoked a cigaret. "I shunned till then the low street gang; I never cared to roam, Till I craved my smokes, And the vulgar jokes, That seemed out of place at home. "Ah, yes, some say these are little things; But so are the mustard seeds; And it's what you start In a child's young heart That brings forth flowers or weeds. "I started wrong — that tells the tale; Nor fate, nor luck, nor yet Necessity made a crook of me, But just — a cigaret." C. Byron Whitney St. Louis, Mo.