Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath
Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know
Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true
The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send
It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared
The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend
Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar
The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type
Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch
The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while
He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead
A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do
The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there
So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl
