By One of the Afflicted.
O MY chum!
Hush your drum;
And at ease
Leave me, please.
I shall fly,
I shall die,
Go to grub,
Or the Hub.
Spare my ears,
Cease my fears;
Draw it mild,
For I am growing wild.
You're insane,
It is plain,
O my chum!
For you drum
On the floor,
On the door,
On the stove,
Walls above,
On my chair, -
Everywhere.
"So's a hen,"
You mildly answer then.
This is rot.
You cannot
Get the flam.
You said damn.
And I swear
I can't bear
Any more
Such a bore.
Darn the fuss!
Hear me cuss.
"Right you are,"
Comes over your cigar.
That's enough, -
No more guff, -
You just trot!
Though it's not,
As they say,
A cold day,
You'll get left,
Or bereft
Of your chum.
There, - keep mum!
'Lection o'er,
Then no more
Shall this pest
My quiet room infest.
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