All the world's a stage, we know it; Managers, whose heads are twirled, Think (to paraphrase the poet) That the stage is all the world. Other men discuss the summer, Or the poor potato crop, Nothing can prevent the mummer Talking "shop."
With his Art as the objective Of his intellectual pow'rs, He (as usual, introspective) Talks about himself for hours. While his friends, who never dream of Interrupting, stand agog, He decants a ceaseless stream of Monologue.
He is great. He has become it By a long and arduous climb To the crest, the crown, the summit Of the Thespian tree--a _lime_! There he chatters like a starling, There, like Jove, he sometimes nods; But he still remains the "darling Of _the gods_!"
A monocle he always wears, Safe screwed within his dexter eye; His mouth stands open wide, and snares The too intrusive fly. Were he to close his jaws, no doubt, The eyeglass would at once fall out.
His choice of clothes is truly weird; His jacket, short, and _negligée_, Is slit behind, as tho' he feared A tail might sprout some day. One's eye must be inured to shocks To stand the tartan of his socks.
The chessboard pattern of his check Betrays its owner's florid taste; A three-inch collar grips his neck, A cummerbund his waist; The trousers that his legs enshroud Speak for themselves, they are so loud.
His shirt, his sleeve-links and his stud, Are all of a cerulean hue, And advertise that Norman blood,-- The bluest of the blue,-- Which, as a brief inspection shows, Seems to have centred in his nose.
His saffron tresses, oiled with care, Back from a vacant brow he scrapes; From so compact a head of hair No filament escapes. (This surface-polish, friends complain, Does _not_ descend into the brain.)
What does he do? You well may ask. Nothing at all, to be exact! Yet he performs this tedious task With quite consummate tact. (No cause for wonder this, in truth, Since he has practised it from youth.)
To some wide window-seat he goes, And gazes out with torpid eyes; Then yawns politely through his nose, Looks at his watch, and sighs; Regards his boots with dumb regret, And lights another cigarette.
Then glances through his morning's mail, And now, his daily labours done, Feels far too comatose and frail To give the dog a run; Besides, as he reflects with shame, He can't recall the creature's name!