To Our Lady Nicotine

Here's to Lady Nicotine! Saint and Sorceress and Queen! Saint, whose purple halo rings Lift our eyes from earthly things; Witch, whose wand of scented briar Transmutes dead weeds to fragrant fire; Queen, whose rod her slaves adore! What can freedom offer more?

OH, EDITOR, EDITOR, Awful and grand, Who holdest our fate In the palm of thy hand, Dost ever reflect How one day thy ghost To an Editor awf'ler And grander will post? Before him a great Golden scroll is spread wide, And a bottomless waste-basket Yawns at his side. With a swift searching glance He reads through thy soul, Then he looks at the basket, Then looks at the scroll; He purses his lips And nibbles his pen, And frowns for one long Awful moment--and then-- Oh, Editor!--think! if thy Poor crumpled soul Fall into the basket And not in the scroll!

To The Creditor

Here's to the Creditor, Long may he reign! May his Faith never waver, His Trust never wane. May the Lord make him gentle And gracious and gay, Yet quick to resent The least offer of pay: May he soften his heart As he softened, we're told, To the Israelite's 'touch,' The Egyptian of old; And when on his last Long account he shall look, The angel will say As he closes the book: "The Lord gives you Credit For Credit you gave"! So here's to the Creditor-- Long may he waive.