'Twas yestermonth in yesteryear my last poem was wrote:
A rhymeless Dodectuplet of tobacco-praising note.
'Twas amply criticized for use of vapid Fragrant words;
And so indeed I promised to heed this warning that I heard.
But then upon a further discourse in this blag's concerne
It was foretold to me that I would not to here return:
That I was an infrequent blagger, nary wise to trust.
Henceforth I held to post on here again to be a must.
This prophecy of slackery to-wards my poet's Muse
The Fates have chosen to reverse as an ironic ruse.
This one who did accuse my Muse of slothful disposition
May yet one day eat up his words in somberest contrition.
That aspiring apprentice of an Oracle prophesied thus to me:
That my recognized status as a contributor was but illusory.
And yet while I unto this blag present this humble song
That voice of Fate's attempts to compete seem to be prolonged.
No sonnet has he spun to woo a lady's tender heart,
No epic has he sung to show his mem'ry to be smart.
Not e'en a short haiku has he yet posted on this blag-
A three-line paean to his pipe through January's fog.
O pagan Fates! Why do ye stay the writing hand of prophecy?
For what do you bless me instead? By what obscure philosophy?
That very fellow who informed me I would ne'er write another thing
Feels very mellow apathy himself towards the task of hence writing.
Is this a feat of Hercules, of such magnitude and strain
To mire him down from writing his poem with pangs and endless pain?
Or did he here consider Anon. Jr.'s poem to suffice
Despite his obligation, every month to post here once or twice?
Or does he aim to end this month by quibbling quips to humor us?
To grace this blag with noble quotes from Alexandre Dumas?
Shall therefore we consider him to not be posting frequent?
Negatory, I suppose; the reason for this is sequent:
To smoke Tobacco, finest crop e'er known
Acrost the oceans deep and mountains high,
Is twofold luxury; tasted alone,
Meanwhiles providing incense to those nigh.
Cigars and pipes are oft enjoyed when lit
In company, a sign of noble bliss.
But certain pleasures of tobacco's taste
and scent, are took alone unto oneself.
Great wisdom is imbibed through the thick clouds
Of ashen grey, the billows of good smoke.
A soothing calm, a weariness expunged
From ones near-splitting head and feeble arms,
Absorbed and healed by Raleigh's greatest gift.
A pardon, thus, to him who did not write
For far beyond the scope of poetry
Lie countless other uses of tobacco
And countless other burdens in the way:
Of tasks and troubles, work and breaking backs-
Cruel Fate's impediments against the Muse.
And yet of all the uses for Toback'
To write a poem, is nevertheless
A one of excellence, a use of worth.
Therefore I praise the work of Orpheus,
His heavenly lyre in hand, crafted of stars
His tragic song of wistful shadows spun
To tell of his lost Eurydice's fate.
For poesy preserves the ancient beauty
That lies within broken shell of smoke
Beshattered by the blows of Tyrant winds
Who seek to end this peaceful earthly joy.
When generations of the coming years
Attempt to strike down all that doth remain
Eternal memories shall be preserved:
Eternal shall the words of poets stand.