Shapes of Clay

by Ambrose Bierce

THE KING OF BORES

THE KING OF BORES.

Abundant bores afflict this world, and some
Are 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,
Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow.
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.