Ma pauvre petite,

My little sweet,

Why do you cry?

Why this small tear,

So pure and clear,

In each blue eye?

'My cigarette—

I'm smoking yet?'

(I'll be discreet.)

I toss it, see,

Away from me

Into the street.

You see I do

All things for you.

Come, let us sup.

(But oh, what joy

To be that boy

Who picked it up.)