The Isle Of Smoke
If they take our tobacco away,
Our lives will be cheerless and gray;
But there'll be quite a band
Which will sail for a land
Where a smoker may smoke and be gay.
Way down In the warm southern seas,
We will pick out an isle where the breeze
Is fragrant indeed
With the scent of the weed,
And there, in the shade of the trees,
We'll loiter from morning to night
With nothing to do but invite
Our souls, as we puff
Nicotinian stuff
In a haze of content and delight.
We shall grow neither barley nor wheat,
We shall raise no potatoes or meat,
But tobacco shall grow
Row on ripening row
In the fields aromatic and sweet.
There shall be no lace curtains to hold
The reek of tobacco grown old,
And if we drop ashes
On chair arms or sashes
There won't be a soul who will scold.
Each house, be it stately or small
Shall have, firmly built in the wall
A great humidor
With a plentiful store
Of smokes to regale one and all.
By day shall our isle be endowed
With smoke in an opaline cloud,
Its beacons by night
Shall be only the light
From the pipes and cigars of the crowd.
And the mariners, sailing the tide.
Shall sniff at the air, far and wide,
When the breeze brings the smell
From the isle where we dwell --
The smell of the smoke they're denied.
Till, lured by that odor of yore
They'll steer for our beautiful shore
With one joyous whoop
They will join with, our group
And never go back any more.
So, though it's convenient to stay
Just now, in the old U. S. A.,
We shall flee, our whole tribe,
To that isle I describe
If they take our tobacco away!
Published in: Judge - August 28, 1920
NOTE: Special thanks to John Martin at http://www.alief.com/andmore
who provided this poem free of charge.
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