It was cigarettes that made her ill.
It started with a tender throat,
nothing much, one would have thought.
The next thing was the morning cough;
not too bad, though her voice was gruff.
But then Lilette came home from school,
said: Mum, give up. Don't be a fool!
And so Lil switched to the milder sort:
inhaled them strongly, tho' her breath was short.
In no time at all she was back on
her favourite sort, the medium-strong.
One day the doctor said to her:
If you don't stop now you'll lose 10 years!
But Lil replied between those coughs:
It's the only pleasure that I've got!
She coughed and hacked her way around
and on cigarettes spent every pound.
Too soon there came the dreadful day
And the men in grey rolled Lil away.
They placed her in a ceramic pot.
Now Lil's just ash herself. A lot!
And she's underneath the heavy stone
on which is writ in sombre tone:
Here lies the ash of one who spoke
too oft of dying for a smoke . . .
Lilette visits when she can
and sprinkles water from a can
She kneels beside the marble stone
and sheds her tears; she's all alone.