Mac’S (Psychologic) Cigar

There’s a quaint and care-free tavern In the heart of business life, In the Quaker City’s centre,―― Where relaxation’s rife. ’Tis a melting pot and leveler For the man who has a ‘bump’, Or the one with trouble burdened Like a dromedary’s hump. One finds parry and riposte rare Unto the nth degree, And Barney Bright, the Irish wight, Who orders “darks” for me. Here Andrew Jackson Johnson, Or MacDee, with savoir faire, Smooths down the foolish talker Who wildly pounds the air. Now diplomatic “Jack” and “Mac”―― MacDee, I mean――the two Have often smoothed the ruffled path For you and me and you. Here rotund, pleasant Pickerel Disports in ornate phrase, And Henry Schaffer ‘Gungha Dins:’ Descants Bohemia’s ways Or “Colonel Massa” Hallowell, Of famed blue-grass renown, Exploits the perfect luxury Of bourbon trickling down. And so, ad infinitum, From out the clouds of smoke, Away from tribulation, We laugh and jest and joke. Now far as I have wandered, At home, abroad, afar, I’ve never seen the equal Of Bill MacDee’s cigar. Its shape just at the lighting Is like Zeppelin’s air craft; ’Tis round and rolled so nicely And pointed fore and aft; It faithfully interprets, In rising rings of smoke, Each psychologic moment, Each point and pass and poke. Now when it’s smooth and rounded Mac’s camping on the trail Of something that’s been mooted, And works his mental flail. This cautious Scottish Quaker’s “I see” means “I’ve a hunch”; He’s sparring for an opening Before he hands a punch, But just before he counters While listening to us “spar,” You will never see the equal Of good, old Mac’s cigar. It’s whirled round like a cyclone; It’s feathered like an owl; It’s mussed up like a scrap can Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl. It’s frayed and furred and serrate; It’s toothed and torn and spurred; It’s ripped and ribbed and ragged, And this is what’s occurred; Chaotic conversation A figure needs, you know, A metaphor or something Interpreting its flow; To visualize its looseness, Its academic “punk” From Literary Digests; Its casuistic “bunk.” And so when I’m relaxing, And talking wild and far, I catch my real reflection In Bill MacDee’s cigar. I trust that it may “fumer,” Frayed, frazzled old cheroot, For many years of joy for Mac, With other things to boot. And when I’ve run my gamut And am “crossing of the bar,” I hope to see a-glowing The end of Mac’s cigar.