Pass The Pipe Sam

Pass The Pipe Sam

by Charles E S Fairey

Pass the Pipe Sam

For you're my kind of Poet-man,

Washed a'shore upon the Rime

Without a dollar, nickle or dime,

You picked me up and took me in

Even though my muse was really Sin,

And by the sacred river of olde we smoked,

Our fearful critics, we laughed, would choke,

Upon our narcotic infused dreamy words

And how they too to Sin would flock like birds,

Oh Kubla Khan measureless to society's man

But pleasure to me, you the reader, and Master Sam.

Oh what wonders our minds speak upon the milk of paradise

Come sinners and drown within the words of fateful's dice,

And to Xanadu set adrift your journey full and true

To thresher's flail and demon-lovers fantastic nail,

For like the Widow's Son across the abyss we set sail

And the Fallen Whore is our muse's drug addled tale,

Pass the Pipe Sam

For we love you Poet-man!