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The Last Cigarette Girl In ever lower décolleté, I work the tables with my tray. If in my “Cigarettes, cigars” There is no mention of their tars, And though my manner hints at tips, “Filter” does not cross my lips, I’m finding out, as fewer smoke, It is tradition I invoke, Tradition being what lives on When any need for it is gone. Why is it “hatcheck girl” we say Of one who puts no hats away, Hats having followed Windsor knots Toward Limbo after slow fox-trots. A cry of “Acapulco Gold” Might sell me out but see me fold, The ringside tables being narcs, D.A.’s, and vice squad. Needle parks Have moved indoors? Hot pink hot pants And Lucky Strikes are my one chance 24 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. At lasting till what goes around Finds out I’m still around, a found Sob story. Better, can I make The talk show circuit if I fake My sex? Transgendered trademark, morph Into the Philip Morris dwarf? 25 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

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