My pipe
I am just a minor poet,
half a thinker, half a coot,
am in love with large-sized frock-coats,
large-sized hats, a large cheroot.
Fate provided me with frock-coats,
also passed me a cheroot;
but as far as white-hot passion
was concerned, gave me the boot.
Often I go out at nighttime
air the cobwebs in my brain
that have gathered in the daytime
while I ruminate again,
take my little pipe and light it;
should the wind prove hard to tame,
cup my hand with utmost caution
round my match’s warming flame,
watch it lick the stick up slowly,
smile though not the smiling type,
suck then with revered devotion
at the air-valve of my pipe.
Fate is where this pipe has come from
plus a goodly ration too
of tobacco as replacement
for the passion no can do.
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