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POEM OF THE DAY
THE PLAYED-OUT HUMOURIST
Quixotic is his enterprise and hopeless his adventure is,
Who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said;
The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries,
And every joke that's possible has long ago been made.
I started as a humourist with lots of mental fizziness,
But humour is a drug which it's the fashion to abuse;
For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures and the good-will of the business
No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.
And if anybody choose
He may circulate the news
That no reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.
Oh, happy was that humourist--the first that made a pun at all--
Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean,
Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all--
How popular at dinners must that humourist have been!
Oh, the days when some step-father for a query held a handle out,--
The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far?
And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron put the candle out,
And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar!
But your modern hearers are
In their tastes particular,
And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a jar!
In search of quip and quiddity I've sat all day alone, apart--
And all that I could hit on as a problem was--to find
Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part,
Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind.
For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity--
It's not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout--
And I've come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity,
In present Anno Domini is worked completely out!
Though the notion you may scout,
I can prove beyond a doubt
That my mine of jocularity is worked completely out!
W. S. Gilbert.
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