Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars
The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made
cigars;
But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine,
And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe
of mine.
It's as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in
bloom;
It's as dainty as the essence of the daintiest
perfume;
It's as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is
hanging ripe,
With the sun's warm kiss upon them--is this corn-cob
pipe.
Thro' the smoke about it clinging, I delight its form
to trace,
Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face;
And my room is dim with vapour as a church when
censers sway,
As I clasp it to my bosom — in a figurative way.
It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in
distress,
And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in
success;
So I hail it as a symbol, friendship's true and worthy
type,
And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob pipe.
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