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Post by jeffd on May 18, 2023 11:21:06 GMT -5
Another gem, by someone named Fjell.
Bright colored yellows and soft muted greens,
With a pipe in hand and a light for the means,
Of smoking away this long and hard day.
Leg dangles from branch, it waves lazily,
Clouds rise with a puff, and float merrily,
One great big ole breath, and troubles seem to cease.
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Post by jeffd on Aug 22, 2023 18:51:03 GMT -5
A good one from Henry Fielding. The fellow who wrote "The History of Tom Jones"
Let the learned talk of books,
The glutton of cooks,
The lover of Celia's soft smack—O!
No mortal can boast
So noble a toast
As a pipe of accepted tobacco.
Let the soldier for fame,
And a general's name,
In battle get many a thwack—O!
Let who will have most,
Who will rule the rooste,
Give me but a pipe of tobacco.
Tobacco gives wit
To the dullest old cit,
And makes him of politics crack—O!
The lawyers i' the hall
Were not able to bawl,
Were it not for a whiff of tobacco.
The man whose chief glory
Is telling a story,
Had never arrived at the smack—O!
Between ever heying,
And as I was saying,
Did he not take a whiff of tobacco.
The doctor who places
Much skill in grimaces,
And feels your pulse running tic-tack—O!
Would you know his chief skill?
It is only to fill
And smoke a good pipe of tobacco.
The courtiers alone
To this weed are not prone;
Would you know what 'tis makes them so slack—O?
'Twas because it inclined
To be honest the mind,
And therefore they banished tobacco.
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Post by jeffd on Aug 23, 2023 16:32:05 GMT -5
A poem by Roger Turner. To get us ready for this winter.
Santa's Pipe
Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath
Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know
Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true
The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send
It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared
The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend
Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar
The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type
Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch
The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while
He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead
A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do
The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there
So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl
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