A cigar on the porch I admit is a sin,
And indicates squarely the age-group I’m in.
“Poor fellow,” they’ll tell you, “You must understand,
His pleasures in life are now frowned on or banned.
He’s not allowed walking or Indian tea,
The juice of the orange is bad for his knee.
And sugar is fattening, ice cream forbidden,
And if he thinks about sex then he keeps it well hidden.
And driving’s not on, his reactions are slow,
And his bones are too brittle to walk in the snow.”
To which I reply, “How little they know!”
Ah! Cigars on the porch! Any ten “Senoritas”
Beat ten margaritas or ten Bach partitas.
With a cocktail you chat and your sorrows you drown,
And you end quite confused, as the level goes down,
As to which glass is her’um and which glass is his’um.
With Bach it transports you in glorious rhythm.
Yes, harmony, cadence, the trill and the tune
Are balm to the soul. But it’s over too soon.
But cigars on the porch! That’s a different story
No strong alcohol or viola d’amore
To come between you and the natural view,
And your principal interest, which is probably you.
A puff on the porch is an aid to reflection
A small interlude for some self-introspection.
How to stay slim and avoid gaining weight?
The faux pas at parties you’re prone to of late.
The bright orange clothing you put in the wash,
Which coloured the bedsheets the colour of squash.
The dozens of emails composed with such care,
Unanswered, they’re lost in the ether. But where?
There’s no resolution, no need to ask why,
Just light up another and gaze at the sky.
A solitary moment, no risk of disruption;
The fumes guarantee against chance interruption.
With one’s pungent aromas one’s banned from the house,
A mark of respect for a tolerant spouse.
But the downside is climate; the temperature veers
Rapidly down when the winter-time nears.
And it isn’t much fun in the rain and the snow.
If you want a cigar, where on earth do you go?
So I do all my thinking ‘twixt May and September –
A cigar on the porch ain’t much fun in December.