My Corn-Cob Pipe

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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.

© Paul Laurence Dunbar