The Burning Question

“I love you very much indeed,”

     The eager young man said;

“Yes, more than all else in the world,”

     And then his face grew red.

“Would I could call you all my own,”

     He trembled as he spoke;

“You are the queen of all the queens,

     But, darling, do you smoke?”

“I could forgive a scathing tongue,

     Or disposition sour;

I could o’er look a thousand faults

     That might crop out each hour.

I could withstand your mama’s rage,

     Could listen to your joke;

But what is troubling me each day

     Is whether, dear, you smoke?”

“Extravagant though you might be,

     In hats three feet across;

Though hobble skirts should tie you down

     I’d count that little loss.

But ere I take the final step,

     The clinching word is spoke,

I wish you’d tell me, queenly one,

     If – if – you – ever – smoke?”

Aug. 23, ‘10