To My Pipe.

By Alan Sullivan

Others their nectar from the goblet sip;

I draw sweet solace from thine amber lip.

“A feast of reason and a flow of soul”

Lurk in the perfumed vapors of thy bowl.

Some scoff, and say I err from nature's rules —

Tobacco's poison; but, friend, some are fools.

If times are hard, no comrade like to thee;

If prosperous, thou'rt the priest of jollity.

Browned in my service, silver-rimmed through age,

Thy smouldering fire, reflection's heritage;

When the day comes, old friend, and I'm dead broke,

Then just one puff — we'll both go up in smoke.