’Twas the week after Christmas
And all through the town
Not a person was smoking
Not a butt to be found;

The panhandlers were about
Open-palmed with a stare
In the hopes that the deep-pocketed
Soon would be there;

The elected were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of beggars danced in their heads;
And Dant in his kerchief, and Jerry in his cap,
Had just settled in for a long smoking rap;
When out in the bars there arose such a stench,
The judge sprang from his bed and ambled to the bench;
Away to the scene reporters flew like a flash,
While bar owners cried, “Ah, here comes the cash;”
The people on the eve of this new smoking ban,
Decided to fire up despite Hizzoner’s plan;
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But an army of indigents, and tourists gripped with fear;
With the little old man, standing too close to the door,
A tourist grabbed his cell and called cops to the store;
Arrested for panhandling, the papers will say,
Then he hollered, and moaned, and was taken away;
“Now homeless, we love you, don’t be misinformed,
We’re only protecting visitors from your scorn;”
And meanwhile, away in the clubs of downtown,
The people are still smoking, and cursing this damn town.