---

C J Dennis - The Bore
Work rating: Low

Ah, prithee friend, if thou has ought
   Of love and kind regard for me
Tell not you bore the stories droll
   That yesternight I told to thee.

Nor tell him stories of thine own,
   Nor chestnut of antiquitee;
Nor quip, nor crank, nor anything
   If thou has ought of love for me.

For sense of humour hath he none,
   No gift for telling tales hath he:
Yet thinks himself within his heart
   A wit of wondrous drolleree.

And in the golden summer-time
   With ear a-cock he roameth free,
Collecting quibble, quip, and crank;
   And anecdotes collecteth he.

Then in the dreary winter nights
   He sits him down `neath my roof tree,
And in a coarse, ungently voice
   He tells those stories back to me.

He hath no wit for telling tales,
   He laughs where ne`er a point there be;
But sits and murders honest yarns,
   And claims them as his propertee.

When he laughs I rock and roar;
   Ay, laugh both loud and merrilee;
And, mark thou, friend, my martyrdom
   He is a creditor to me.

He is a man of mighty power;
   In very fact, a great J.P.;
And I, his debtor, rock and roar,
   And vow he`ll be the death o` me.

Ay, prithee, friend, if thou hast love
   For goodly jests or care for me,
Then tell him not the merry tale
   That yesternight I told to thee.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.