If it be food indeed, Who, when his appetite is low, Falls back upon his greed.
For each man eats his fav'rite meats, (Provided by his wife); Or cheese or chalk, or peas or pork, (For such, alas! is life!) The rich man eats them with a fork, The poor man with a knife.
VI. THE DENTIST
What a dangerous trade is the dentist's! With what perils he has to contend, As he plunges his paws In the gibbering jaws Of some trusting but terrified friend, With the risk that before he is ten minutes older His arms may be bitten off short at the shoulder!
He is born in the West, is the dentist, And he speaks with a delicate twang, When polite as a prince, He requests you to "rinse," After gently removing a fang. ('Tis to save wear-and-tear to the mouth, one supposes, That dentists consistently talk through their noses.)
He is painfully shy, is the dentist; For he lives such a hand-to-mouth life. When the sex known as "fair" Comes and sits in his chair, He will call for his sister or wife, For a lady-companion or female relation, — So strong is the instinct of self-preservation!
He's a talkative man, is the dentist; Though his patients are loth to reply. With his fist in your mouth He may say North is South, And you cannot well give him the lie; For it's hard to converse on such themes as the weather, With jawbone and tongue fastened firmly together!
To a sensitive soul like the dentist You should always avoid talking "shop." If he drops in to tea, You must certainly see That your wife doesn't ask him to "stop!" He is facile princeps, perhaps, of his calling; But jokes about princip'ly forceps are galling!
There are people who say of the dentist That he isn't a gentleman quite. Half the gents that we see Are no gentler than he, And but few are so sweetly polite; For of all the strange trades to which men are apprentic'd; The gentlest, I'm certain, is that of the dentist!
VII THE MAN WHO KNOWS
How few of us contrive to shine In ordinary conversation As brightly as this human mine Of universal information, Or give mankind the benefit Of such encyclopædic wit.
How few of us can lightly touch On any topic one may mention With so much savoir-faire, or such Exasperating condescension; Or take so lively a delight In setting other people right.
Whatever you may do or dream, The Man Who Knows has dreamt or done it; If you propound some novel scheme, The Man Who Knows has long begun it; Should you evolve a repartee, "I made that yesterday," says he.
With what a supercilious air He listens to your newest story, As tho' your latest legend were Some chestnut long of beard and hoary. "When I recount that yarn," he'll say, "I end it in a diff'rent way."
With a superior smile he caps Your ev'ry statement with another, If you have lost your voice, perhaps, He knows a man who's lost his mother; If you've a cold, 'tis not so bad As one that once his uncle had.
Should you describe some strange event That happened to a near relation, — Some fatal motor accident, Some droll or ticklish situation, — "In eighteen-eighty-eight," says he, "The very same occurred to me."
Each man who dies to him supplies A peg on which to air his knowledge; "Poor So-and-So," he sadly sighs, "He shared a room with me at college. I knew his sister at Ostend. He was my father's dearest friend."
If you relate some incident, A trifle scandalous or shady, An anecdote you've heard anent Some wealthy or distinguished lady, He stops you with a sudden sign: — "She is a relative of mine!"
When on some simple point of fact You fancy him impaled securely, He either smiles with silent tact, Or else he shakes his head obscurely, Suggesting that he might disclose Portentous secrets, if he chose.
But if you dare to doubt his word, At once that puts him on his metal; "Your facts," says he, "are quite absurd! As for Mount Popocatepetl, — Of course it's not in Mexico; I've been there, and I ought to know!"
Or "George, how you exaggerate! It isn't half-past seven, nearly! I make it seven-twenty-eight; Your watch is out of order, clearly. Mine cannot possibly be slow; I set it half an hour ago."
He knows a foreign health-resort Where tourists are quite inoffensive; He knows a brand of ancient port, Comparatively inexpensive; And he will tell you where to get The choicest Turkish cigarette.
He knows hotels at which to dine And take the most fastidious guest to; He knows a mine in Argentine In which you safely can invest, too; He knows the shop where you can buy The most recherché hat or tie.
If you require a motor-car, He has a cousin who can tell you Of something second-hand but far Less costly than the trade would sell you; And if you want a chauffeur, too, He knows the very man for you.
There's nothing that he doesn't know, Except – a rather grave omission — How weary his relations grow Of such unceasing erudition, — How fervently his fellows long That just for once he should be wrong.
O Man Who Knows, we humbly ask That thou shouldst cease such grateful labours — Suspend thy self-inflicted task Of lecturing thine erring neighbours; For in thy knowledge we detect No faintest sign of Intellect.
VIII THE FADDIST
Gentle Reader, is your bosom filled with loathing At the mention of the "Simple Life" brigade? Do you shudder at their Jaeger underclothing, Which is "fearfully and wonderfully made"? Though in manner they resemble "poor relations," Or umbrellas which their owners have forgot, They contribute to the gaiety of nations, Do they not?
They are harmless little people, tame and quiet, Who will feed out of a fellow-creature's hand, If he happens to provide them with a diet Of a temperance and vegetable brand. They can easily subsist – a thing to brag of — In the draughtiest of sanitary huts, On a "mute inglorious Stilson" and a bag of Monkey-nuts.
Ev'ry faddist is, of course, an early riser; When he leaves his couch (at 6 a. m. perhaps) He will struggle with some patent "Exerciser," Until threatened with a physical collapse. He wears collars made of cellular materials, And sandals in the place of leather boots, And his victuals are composed of either cereals Or roots.
He believes in drinking quantities of water, Undiluted by the essence of the grape; And he deprecates the universal slaughter Of dumb animals in any form or shape. So his breakfast-food (a patent, too, of course), is Made of oats which he monotonously chews, Mixed with chaff which any self-respecting horses Would refuse.
He discovers fatal microbes that are hiding In the liquids that his fellow creatures drink; Fell bacilli that are stealthily residing In our carpets, in our kisses, in our ink! In his eagerness such parasites to smother, He will keep himself so sterilised and aired, That one fancies he would disinfect his mother, If he dared.
In a vegetarian restaurant you'll find him, Where he feeds, like any other anthropoid, Upon dishes which must certainly remind him Of the cocoanuts his ancestors enjoyed. As he masticates his monkeyfood, you wonder If his humour is as meagre as his fare, And you look to see his tail depending under- -Neath his chair.
To his friends he never wearies of explaining The exact amount of times they ought to chew, The advantages of "totally abstaining," And the joys of walking barefoot in the dew; How that slumber must be summoned circumspectly, In an attitude conducive to repose, And that breathing should be carried on correctly Through the nose.
A pathetic little figure is my hero, With a sparse and wizened beard, and straggly hair, Upon which is perched a sort of a sombrero Such as operatic brigands love to wear. He may eat the nuts his prehistoric sires ate, He may flourish upon sawdust mixed with bran, But he looks more like a Nonconformist pirate Than a man!
