Two convicts are locked in a cell. There is an unbarred window high up in the cell. No matter if they stand on the bed or one on top of the other they can't reach the window to escape. They then decide to tunnel out. However, they give up with the tu... Read more of Cell breakout at Free Jokes.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

The Betrothed.

Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

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



Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at,--Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay,
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away,--

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown,--
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie my wife at fifty,--gray and dour and old,--
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket,--
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the

Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider a while,--
Here is a mild Manilla,--there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion,--bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a _Suttee's_ passion,--to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy, who read of the tale of my

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear.
But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful

Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider anew,--
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon _you_?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba: I hold to my first-sworn vows,
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!



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