A police dog responds to an ad for work with the FBI. "Well," says the personnel director, "You'll have to meet some strict requirements. First, you must type at least 60 words per minute." Sitting down at the typewriter, the dog types out 80 ... Read more of Bilingual Dog at Free Jokes.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...



A POET'S PIPE.








_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._


A poet's pipe am I,
And my Abyssinian tint
Is an unmistakable hint
That he lays me not often by.
When his soul is with grief o'erworn
I smoke like the cottage where
They are cooking the evening fare
For the laborer's return.

I enfold and cradle his soul
In the vapors moving and blue
That mount from my fiery mouth;
And there is power in my bowl
To charm his spirit and soothe,
And heal his weariness too.

RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.





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Previous: WITH PIPE AND BOOK.



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