lightly Ruff--tread lightly!!!Ruffinogold wrote: ↑Wed Sep 26, 2018 5:34 pm 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
Bad Pipe Poetry
- whitebriar
- Junior Member
- Posts: 77
- Joined: Thu May 10, 2018 12:09 am
- Preacher1611
- Member in Good Standing
- Posts: 629
- Joined: Tue May 08, 2018 11:32 am
- Location: Van Schaick Island, NY
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.
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.
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.
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
- Certified Codger
- Posts: 7627
- Joined: Mon Jul 30, 2018 7:18 pm
After I read these
there was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.
there was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.
"I realized I had the gift of seeming to know more than I actually did." -A.J. Cronin-
I hope you don't mind, but If I may be allowed to riff off the germ of what you started there, Mike Dennison:MikeDennison wrote: ↑Wed Oct 17, 2018 8:58 pm After I read these
there was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.
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
- Certified Codger
- Posts: 7627
- Joined: Mon Jul 30, 2018 7:18 pm
I'm truly humbled.Whalehead King wrote: ↑Wed Oct 17, 2018 9:39 pmI hope you don't mind, but If I may be allowed to riff off the germ of what you started there, Mike Dennison:MikeDennison wrote: ↑Wed Oct 17, 2018 8:58 pm After I read these
there was nothing left to say.
True poets write right.
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 realized I had the gift of seeming to know more than I actually did." -A.J. Cronin-
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
- Certified Codger
- Posts: 7627
- Joined: Mon Jul 30, 2018 7:18 pm
justlike that.Whalehead King wrote: ↑Wed Oct 17, 2018 10:26 pmHumbled 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!
"I realized I had the gift of seeming to know more than I actually did." -A.J. Cronin-
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.
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.