Ode to Tobacco

Thou who, when fears attack, Bid’st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman’s back     Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they ’ve cleared away Lunch; and at close of day     Possibly sweetest: I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told,     Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost— Useless, except to roast—     Doctors have said it: How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees,     Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives     Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix     Still with their neighbors; Jones—(who, I ’m glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)— Daily absorbs a clay     After his labors. Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use     Thoughtfully taken? We ’re not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar!     Here ’s to thee, Bacon!