The Smoker's Year Book

Excerpt

JANUARY

Now Time the harvester surveysHis sorry crops of yesterdays;Of trampled hopes and reaped regrets,And for another harvest whetsHis ancient scythe, eying the whileThe budding year with cynic smile.Well, let him smile; in snug retreatI fill my pipe with honeyed sweet,Whose incense wafted from the bowlShall make warm sunshine in my soul,And conjure mid the fragrant hazeFair memories of other days.Bend you now before the shrineOf the good Saint Valentine.Show to him your broken heart—Pray the Saint to take your part.Should he intercede in vainAnd the maid your heart disdain,Call upon Saint Nicotine;He will surely intervene.Bring burnt off'ring to his feet,Incense of Havana, sweet.Then the maiden's shade invoke,It will disappear in smoke!

MARCH

Here comes bluff March—a cross betweenA Jester and a Libertine.He loves to make the parson raceWith wicked words his hat to chase;To dye with compromising roseThe pious man's abstemious nose.The ladies hate him, though he showsA pretty taste for silken hose.The smoker views him with distrust,Shielding his last match from his gust.But once alight—his holy joyNo blast from Heaven can destroy!Lady April, it is clear,Is the spoilt child of the Year.See her tears about to start—Thus she melts old Winter's heart.Now the gay deceiving thingTurns and plays the deuce with Spring.Winter lingers at her gate;Spring grows chilly and irate.I'd go home if I were he—It is just such girls as sheMake a fellow thank his starsFor the solace of cigars.

MAY

Like Brunhilda, May is wonBy the kisses of the Sun.Siegfried like, the maid he takesIn his arms and she awakesTo the tender piping soundOf the birds—while all aroundIn a magic fire ringPurple flames of Crocus spring.Now I fill my fragrant briar,Lo! it glows with gentle fire,Wafting scented wreaths of loveTo the little leaves above."What so rare as a day in June?"Thus I heard the poet croon,To the month of roses sweet,His song with barometric feet.Perfect days I own are rare—All depends on how you fare.Can a day be perfect toThe rose that has not sipped the dew?Can the Bee, do you suppose,Hum, that has not sipped the rose?Can there be for Man, I say,Without a smoke, a perfect day?

JULY

Red rockets skyward rush pell-mellAnd fill the night with noise and smell.The stars of Heaven look down, and say:"So this is Independence Day!Poor earth-born stars, it makes us sadTo see your fire work like madTo make a Human Holiday.Where isyourindependence, pray?"—Whereat I woke—my fire was low,My pipe was out. Said I: "Heigho!I never thought of it that way,I'll give them both a holiday."Drowsing o'er my sainted briar,Dreaming dreams of Heart's Desire,Dreaming 'neath the August sun,Thus my meditations run—What if that great Ember brightWere a monster Pipe alight,Or the glowing from afarOf some Fire-God's cigar...?