Ode To Tobacco

Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest! I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told Not to thy credit: How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost,— Useless, except to roast— Doctors have said it; How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards, Go mad, and beat their wives, Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors,— Jones, who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J., Daily absorbs a clay After his labors. Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco juice; Still, why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are; Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!