Always a Catch

He pressed the nigger-head into the bowl;
Then felt, in vain, for a match:
And then he waggled his wise old head —
Well, isn't that just like life? he said
And isn't there always a catch , he said —
And isn't there always a catch?

A pipeful of baccy, a heathery knowe,
And a fine summer morning to match:
Yet, all for the lack of a light , he said
I might just as well lie at peace with the dead —
Though I've got my own doubts of the peace of the dead,
For, isn't there always a catch?
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