It was a Russian friend who got me into it. Pipe-smoking, he told me, was his form of meditation, the thing that regularly sent him into a kind of trance. He’d got into it in the 1990s, when after communism fell and free trade flourished, a local pipe-master (or maker) started selling them on a rug laid out on the street. ‘A cigarette is a one-night stand,’ my friend told me. ‘Over quickly, mostly unmemorable, easily discarded. But a pipe is your friend for life.’

Robin Ashenden: Confessions of a Pipe-smoker

Fragments of the Missing Trumpian Stanzas

Sep14

Now the rainbow democrats gnash their teeth
And roll their wicked eyes like souls possessed.
Obama and crew, ruling from beneath
Recall the crimes they have not yet confessed.
What they hailed as light now turns to shadow.
(Immigrants eat cats in Colorado . . .)

Heaven mocks hell—it’s contradictory:
Your dank Egyptian darkness is our light!
Your suicidal rage, our victory
Memes poke fun at neurotic left-wing fright.
Your socialistic plans are placed on hold,
While faith increases value more than gold.

Unfit to line the cage of colored fowl
Who twitter on, enraged, in revolution,
White man’s rag, that useless Constitution,
Could save the republic. Let jackals howl . . .
Our founders planned for such an urgency
Now put to trial in an emergency.