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Whose Pipe?

“He’s left his pipe” the barmaid cried

The smoker’s left he’s not inside.

The bowls still warm, he’s not long left

Without his pipe he’ll be bereft.

Imagine him sat by the fire

Looking for his favourite briar

A kind old boy who thinks a lot

He keeps his ‘baccy in a pot

He’ll blame his wife who’s hidden it

And there alone he’ll sadly sit

The plans he made the thoughts he had

Cheer up mate don’t be sad

A man needs time to sit and think

A pipe to smoke, a drink to drink.

Should we try to find the guy

He more than likely lives nearby

As they rise to look around

They hear an unexpected sound

The door flies open in she trips

With long blonde hair and mobile hips

Her lips are red, her eyes are kind

“Did I leave my pipe behind?”

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