The Ballad[e] Of The Bore

I see him come from far,
And, sick with hopelessness,
Invoke some kindly star,–
I see him come, no less.
Is there no sure recess
Where hunted men may lie?
Ye gods, it is too hard!
I feel his glittering eye,–
Defend us from The Bard!

He knows nor let nor bar:
With ever-nearing stress,
Like Juggernaut his car,
I see him onward press;
He waves a huge MS.;
He puts evasion by,
He stands–as one on guard,
And reads–how volubly!–
Defend us from The Bard!

He reads–of Fates that mar,
Of Woes beyond redress,
Of all the Moons that are,
Of Maids that never bless,
(As one, indeed, might guess);
Of Vows, of Hopes too high,
Of Dolours by the yard
That none believe (nor buy),–
Defend us from The Bard!

ENVOY

Prince Phoebus, all must die,
Or well- or evil-starred,
Or whole of heart or scarred;
But why in this way–why?
Defend us from The Bard!