Old Toby
I haven't been writing as much lately as I'm working toward finishing my degree. I apologise for that but I promise good things to come!
This one is for a good friend and co worker, Ben W. He's not a soppy poetry kinda guy, but he enjoys his pipe as much as I do. If you get this reference, you gain bonus points!
--
Perched on a log; Old Toby sat;
His furry feet, bare on his mat.
He draws on his pipe; hot it glows;
And blows smoke in such small O's.
Silver whisps do take the night air,
From a heated bowl; one to share.
The scent of pipeweed; hints of spice;
Burns through the stem, and soothes like ice.
The heavy taste sleeps on his tongue;
Teasing his heart; filling his lung.
His head wanders to lands afar;
The Elvish girl beneath her stars.
He sips on his stem but twice more,
Then tips the embers to the floor.
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