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.