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.SourceThe script ran 0 seconds.
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