 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
THE KING OF BORES
Abundant bores afflict this world, and someAre bores of magnitude that come and—no,
They're always coming, but they never go—
Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum
Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum,
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But one superb tormentor I can show—
Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum.
He the johndonkey is who, when I pen
Amorous verses in an idle mood
To nobody, or of her, reads them through
And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then
Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood
This tender sonnet's application too.
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |