But still, although one likes to keep
One's self a bit select,
And not be, so to speak, too cheap,
I'm broad in that respect.
So oft, on sultry summer eves,
I waive all diffidence,
And chat across the wilted leaves
That garb our garden fence.
But, oh, his talk is so absurd!
His notions are so crude.
Such drivel I have seldom heard;
His mode of speech is rude.
He mentions "stomach" in a bark
You'd hear across the street.
He lacks those little ways that mark
A gentleman discreet.
Good books he seldom seems to read;
In Art all taste he lacks.
To Slopham's works he pays no heed;
He scorns my almanacks—
Framed almanacks! It's simply rot
To hear the fellow prate
About Velasquez, Villon, Scott,
And such folk out of date.
Page:Backblock Ballads and Later Verses (C.J. Dennis, 1918).djvu/127
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THE PHILISTINE
119
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