Shapes of Clay

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.