Bad Pipe Poetry

[whitebriar]

Pipes are made out of wood
If ya got em , smoke em , ya should
Fill em with tobacco , if you don't yer a whacko
If your wife could be a pipe , she would

lightly Ruff--tread lightly!!!

[arturo7]

My wifey is a blue-eyed ball of spite
For reasons big and small she’ll start a fight
I lit an English bowl
She gave her eyes a roll
Guess I’m sleeping on the couch again tonight

[Preacher1611]

Masters were we few,
At creating bad haiku
In a lost Goat thread.

Pipes are pipes, enjoy!
Smoke alone, smoke them with friends,
Whether warm or cold,

There is always time
For a good hearty smoke and
Pretty bad haiku's!

So ends this ditty
Regaling the pipe; look! A
Refrigerator.

[Whalehead King]

Don’t try to wipe
Yer bum with yer pipe
It’s rough rustication
Will cause scabulation
and then you won’t be able to sit right.

Don’t try to pack
Yer pipe with yer rack
The rack’s made for holding
Not rubbing and folding
The draw will be more loose than tight.

Picking tobacco you like
Is like riding a bike
Practice makes perfect
And perfection is worth it
You’ll get through the bowl with one relight.

[MikeDennison]

After I read these
there was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.

[Whalehead King]

After I read these
there was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.

I hope you don't mind, but If I may be allowed to riff off the germ of what you started there, Mike Dennison:

After I read these
There was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.

Like carrots and peas,
Like April and May,
Like thank you and please,
Like night follows day,
And like a Kleenex follows a sneeze…

Like latakia in a pizzeria…

True poets write right in the middle of the night as their thoughts take flight and they forget their sad plight, fighting the good fight with all of their might as they reach for their Zippo to spark a soft charring light.
It is at moments like these, be a gentleman an observant Anglican or a devout Mennonite,
So long as we share a brotherhood of the briar,
No one who writes true to his code and his heart can ever be called a liar.


---- A tip of my fedora to the gent who planted the seed for this poor pipe poem. Thank you, Mr. Dennison!

[MikeDennison]

After I read these
there was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.

I hope you don't mind, but If I may be allowed to riff off the germ of what you started there, Mike Dennison:

After I read these
There was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.

Like carrots and peas,
Like April and May,
Like thank you and please,
Like night follows day,
And like a Kleenex follows a sneeze…

Like latakia in a pizzeria…

True poets write right in the middle of the night as their thoughts take flight and they forget their sad plight, fighting the good fight with all of their might as they reach for their Zippo to spark a soft charring light.
It is at moments like these, be a gentleman an observant Anglican or a devout Mennonite,
So long as we share a brotherhood of the briar,
No one who writes true to his code and his heart can ever be called a liar.


---- A tip of my fedora to the gent who planted the seed for this poor pipe poem. Thank you, Mr. Dennison!

I'm truly humbled.

[Whalehead King]

I'm truly humbled.

Humbled like latakia in a pizzeria?

Heh. I'm hoping someone picks up that line and runs with it.

Thanks, pal. It was a pleasure to be inspired. Cheers!

[MikeDennison]

I'm truly humbled.

Humbled like latakia in a pizzeria?

Heh. I'm hoping someone picks up that line and runs with it.

Thanks, pal. It was a pleasure to be inspired. Cheers!

justlike that.

[Whalehead King]

In angels’ time, when the moon is not quite full, and not yet orange, in October,
The leaves turn crisp on their branches before they fall.
The autumnal leaves remind me of ready rubbed pipe tobacco that has been in its tin too long.
Crunch, crunch, crunch…
It is time to spark the charring light.

As my neighbors burn their leaf piles, the neighborhood air if filled with wafts of fragrant smoke.
Wisps of winter stove aromas are transplanted a few months early.
Smoke smells nice.

Smoke always smells nice.

When I light my pipe in public, a bowl of dry ready rubbed tobacco, I get a lot of compliments.
Chicks dig it.

“I’ve never met anyone who smokes a pipe,” the ladies say.
“It smells so nice,” the ladies say.
“Where are you from?” the ladies ask.

I am from the land of Latakia, the land of quality Virginia, of Oriental Syria.
My middle name is Burley.
I’m well aged and matured.
My personality is expertly mixed from generations of experience.
I live in a cellar but don’t hold that against me. It has been time well spent.

Some people call me Captain Black.
Some people call me Carter Hall.
Some people call me Prince Edward.
Some people call me John Cotton.

I’ve got a lot of nicknames.

Some people call me Mac Baren.
Some people call me Mr. Half and Half, Agent M79, or Mr. Granger.
A pointer will tell you where to find me…
I’ll be where the good smell is coming from.

In angels’ time, late at night, right before midnight turns to dreams,
I’m the fellow enjoying a nightcap before the rooster crows in the morning.
Early morning, noon, or night,
Every time is a good time to enjoy a proper pipe.