On The Bus

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!