III.
My pipe, he tastes of chocolate,
And he has grown so dear so dear,
That I get up at half-past eight
And smoke till night is here.
My aunt informs me that the smell
Is ranker than before—
I could not love her half so well
Loved I not baccy more.
The female mind! The female mind!
How beautiful it is!
And yet it has to sit behind
When it's compared with this—
This taste that falls upon my pipe,
That calms when woman clacks,
In the sweet season when he's ripe,
And just before he cracks.