The last Tobacco Poem

I wrote this last tobacco poem while drinking coffee. I apologize to anyone I offend.

I'll tug my hair and gnash my teeth, before I get this last poem out,
For lovely muse, you betrayeth me, so tobaccos lost its very shout.

My friends they wag their finger at me, a poem to demand another,
For this is the way of the normative creed, this how they treat a brother.

I do not complain, their request is just; but buckle down I must?
Though this is the only way I see, otherwise my writing would rust.

Get some ideas, have thought and connect tobacco to it all.
Politics, theology, ethics, astrology; speak proudly of Sir Walter Rawl.

Though now I have grown a custom to nothing, putting the practice aside,
How shall I remember to write of anything, as tobacco was the only guide.

So now I wake in the morning, seeing it is now no time for a pipe,
I ponder what shall I take, affecting my day to make the fruit ripe.

A cup of mud water! how could I forget to drink the a.m. strong,
For if it got me writing this poem, how could you consider it wrong?

But, Tobacco I do not speak you ill, and plan to have you replenishing my stock,
Though, finding there is others that stimulate my mind, should not come as a shock.

By Evan Gunn Wilson