You smoke a pipe -- of course, you do!
About an inch in length or less,
Which, from a sexual point of view,
Mars somehow your attractiveness.
But, rather than resign the weed,
You'd shock us, whites, by chewing it;
For etiquette is not indeed
A thing that bothers you a bit.
Your people -- take them as a whole --
Are careless on the score of grace;
And hence you needn't comb your poll
Or decorate your unctuous face.
Still, seeing that a little soap
Would soften an excess of tint,
You'll pardon my advance, I hope,
In giving you a gentle hint.
You have your lovers -- dusky beaux
Not made of the poetic stuff
That sports an Apollonian nose,
And wears a sleek Byronic cuff.
But rather of a rougher clay
Unmixed with overmuch romance,
Far better at the wildwood fray
Than spinning in a ballroom dance.
~These~ scarcely are the sonneteers
That sing their loves in faultless clothes:
~Your~ friends have more decided ears
And more capaciousness of nose.
No doubt they suit you best -- although
They woo you roughly it is said:
Their way of courtship is a blow
Struck with a nullah on the head.
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