I, one day, wondered, whether I,
Was loved by she whom spent my time,
My money, patience, days and nights;
I wondered if her words were true.

So lost, and feeling loveless, I
Wondered long into the night,
With nothing left to warm my heart --
For my burning joy had smoked them all.

I decided that I was not loved;
From me she stole the very last
Inch of thought, and sleep, and cigarette
And not a thank you, from her lips, did pass.

I awoke to find myself alone,
Her presence preserved in mountainous ash;
And beside me where she used lay,
Was a house made out of cigarettes --
Graffiti'd with a note which read:
"A pack for every one you gave."