My Corn-Cob Pipe

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.