Sitting on the top of the 'bus,
   I bite my pipe and look at the sky.
   Over my shoulder the smoke streams out
   And my life with it.
   “Conservation of energy,” you say.
   But I burn, I tell you, I burn;
   And the smoke of me streams out
   In a vanishing skein of grey.
   Crash and bump ... my poor bruised body!
   I am a harp of twittering strings,
   An elegant instrument, but infinitely second-hand,
   And if I have not got phthisis it is only an accident.
   Droll phenomena!

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