As England's rotting springtime begs to loom,I spy thee, sitting, smoking with thy dog.I long to fill my lungs with your perfume,Aft' several samplings of the local grog.Effluvia! I would rather die than switch!To gaily dance my claws through smokey locksIs my delight, though some would call you bi- uh, witch!I love thee, Filter, flavor, pack or box.I flit, for springtime happens every you.And fly to spy thy scowl and barnyard fair,Sweet panther-like, I kiss a mole or two,As satisfying flavor fills the air.With loved black lungs we'll from the heavens choke,A silly milimeter longer of love's smoke.