Ode on the Death of a Favorite Water Smoking System broken by a Fall

'Twas on a lofty tableside,
Where Guilford's finest art had dy'd
Pretty red lines for show;
Demurest of the bong-y kind,
The pensive MacGyver, reclin'd,
Gazed on carpet below.

His sticky resin joy declar'd;
The fair white glass, with smoky beard,
At a sight will give pause,
His base, azure like port of Howth,
His sides of crimson, and bubbled mouth,
He burnt: and breathed applause.

Presumptuous Pipe! with fool's intent
On table perch'd, over the edge he bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd)
The slipp'ry verge his base beguil'd,
And tumbled headlong in.

Eight times shatter in glassy flood
He cry'd to ev'ry chem'cal god,
Some gluey aid to send.
No Elmer came, no Quicktite stirr'd;
Nor cruel RA, nor Pappy heard.
A Drunkard is no friend!

From hence, o! ye bongs, undeceiv'd,
Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd,
And be with caution bold.
Ye hippies, with uncautious eyes,
A broken pipe is your lawful prize,
Penalty, $200 gold.

Stn (apologies to Thomas Gray)