Men May Sing Of Their Havanas, Elevating To The Stars The Real Or Fancied Virtues Of Their Foreign-Made Cigars; But I Worship Nicotina At A Different Sort Of Shrine, And She Sits Enthroned In Glory In This Corn-Cob Pipe Of Mine. It 'S As Fragrant As The Meadows When The Clover Is In Bloom; It 'S As Dainty As The Essence Of The Daintiest Perfume; It 'S As Sweet As Are The Orchards When The Fruit Is Hanging Ripe, With The Sun'S Warm Kiss Upon Them--Is This Corn-Cob Pipe. Thro' The Smoke About It Clinging, I Delight Its Form To Trace, Like An Oriental Beauty With A Veil Upon Her Face; And My Room Is Dim With Vapour As A Church When Censers Sway, As I Clasp It To My Bosom--In A Figurative Way. It Consoles Me In Misfortune And It Cheers Me In Distress, And It Proves A Warm Partaker Of My Pleasures In Success; So I Hail It As A Symbol, Friendship'S True And Worthy Type, And I Press My Lips Devoutly To My Corn-Cob Pipe.