My pipe is old
And caked with soot;
My wife remarks:
“How can you put
That horrid relic,
So unclean,
Inside your mouth?
The nicotine
Is strong enough
To stupefy
A Swedish plumber.”

I reply:
“This is the kind
Of pipe I like.
I fill it full
Of Happy Strike,
Or Barking Cat
Or Cabman’s Puff,
Or Brooklyn Bridge
(That potent stuff)
Or Chaste Embraces,
Knacker’s Twist,
Old Honeycomb
Or Niggerfist.

I clamp my teeth
Upon its stem—
It is my bliss,
My diadem.
Whatever Fate
May do to me,
This is my favorite
BBB.
For this dear pipe
You feign to scorn
I smoked the night
The boy was born.”