A Little Book of Bores

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A is the Autograph Bore Whom Authors and Actors deplore, Tho’ it’s evident quite If the Dears ceased to write They’d deplore even more than before.

B is a Bounder blasé Who likes to appear quite au fait; He purses his lips As his Rhine wine he sips, Tho’ he doesn’t know Hock from Tokay.

C’s a Critic. Far be it from me With a time-honoured craft to make free. All praise I accord Good Critics—but lord! What a Bore a bad Critic can be!

D is a Decadent Dreary Whose Works are depressing and eerie; If you ask his excuse For existence, or use, I’m afraid I can’t answer your query.

E is the Egotist dread Who, as some one has happily said, Will talk till he’s blue About _my_self, when you Want to talk about _your_self instead.

F’s a Frankly Familiar Friend Who loves free advice to extend; He declares, for his part, He knows nothing of Art, But he thinks that your time you misspend.

G is a Grumbler gruff Whom everything puts in a huff; If he chances to gain Heaven’s gate, he’ll complain Of his Halo or Harp, like enough.

H is a Humorist glum. Why sits he so silent and dumb? He’s concocting some Gay Impromptu to say When the Opportune Moment shall come.

I’s the Intensely Intense Who dilates on the Whither and Whence, The Ego (or “I”), And the Wherefore and Why, Not to mention the Hither and Hence.

J is the “Johnnie”—a Thing Much affected by Fairies who sing. He is human in shape, With the brain of an ape, And generally tied to a string.

K is the Kaiser unnerving, With the Terrible Moustache upcurving. One man who can bore A planet——and more Is surely of mention deserving.

L’s the Loquacious variety, That is found in all sorts of society. He will drink in the sound Of his own voice—till drowned In a species of self-inebriety.

M’s a Methodical Man Who prates with precision and plan. Beware, how you balk The stream of his talk, Lest he go back to where he began.

N is a Newly-rich boor, Whom no one pretends to endure. Some cases with care And complete change of Heir Take three generations to cure.

O is an Optimist glad Who doesn’t know how to be sad; If he wakes up some day In Hades, he’ll say, “Well, really it isn’t so bad.”

P’s a Poetical bore Who recites his own things by the score. The ladies, poor dears, Are all moved to tears, While strong men are moved—to the door.

Q is a Quoter who’ll cite His favourite authors all night. Tho’ teeming with Thought, Like the Moon he is naught But a second-hand dealer in Light.

R’s a Rampant Reformer whose prose Insures you a Health-giving doze. You wouldn’t much mind If he’d only be kind And not slam the door when he goes.

S is a Satirist rude Who subsists on Leguminous Food, Which he shyly maintains So enforces his brains, Even Shakespeare beside him seems crude.

T is a Terrible Tot Who says things he’d much better not. A child of that age Should be kept in a cage, And fed—if at all—through a slot.

U is the Unco Guid Man, And all his unspeakable clan, With their Braw bonnie brae, Bide a wee, Scots wha hae, Aweel, Dinna ken, and Hoot man.

V is a Vain Virtuoso. If you ask, “Pray what makes your hair grow so; Do you think it a sign Of Genius divine?” He replies, “I don’t think so, I know so.”

W’s a Well-informed Wight Who aims to set every one right; If you chance to misspell Or misquote, he will swell With holy and chastened Delight.

X is Old Xmas, a dear Old Impostor who comes once a year, With wassail, and wishes, And death-dealing dishes, And chilblains, and chimes, and good cheer.

Y is a Yodler whose yell Wakes the echo in mountain or fell. “Poor Echo!” I say, “To be wakened each day By a sound like a Feline unwell.”

Z is a Zealot whose zeal Takes the form of an “_Urgent appeal_.” Tho’ you wriggle and squirm And protest—he sits firm, Till he lands you at last like an eel.

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

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