On a Tiresome Fellow

He told me just how rich he was,
But nervous of the cholera;
— That he took good care where the money goes,
But he liked a seat at the Opera.

— That he was simply wild about nature,
Monsieur Corot being quite an old chum;
— That a carriage was still a missing feature
Among his goods — but it would come;

— That marble and brick divided his fancy,
Along with ebony and gilded wood;
— That there were in his factory
Paintings which were awfully good;

— That, not to mention all the rest,
He had twenty thousand shares in the Nord;
— That he'd found out (and this he stressed)
The best tailor and the finest chord;

— That he'd go as far even as Luzarches
To steep himself in bric-a-brac;
— That the Marché des Patriarches
Was where you'd always find him back;

That he didn't care much for his wife
Nor for his mother, but — theirs apart —
He believed in the immortal life,
And had plenty of room in his heart;

— That he quite approved of physical passion,
And once, on a tedious stay in Rome,
A consumptive lady of fashion
Had given him the time of his life at home;

— For three solid hours and a half,
This chatterer, born in Tournai,
Dished up to me the whole of his life;
I felt my brain give way.

If I had to tell you all I suffered
I would never be able to give up.
I sat in helpless hate, and muttered:
At least I'll get something out of this cup.

Like someone whose seat can give no rest
But who cannot get up and make his escape,
I squirmed and wriggled — and did my best
To keep him talking without a break.

Bastogne this monstrosity's called;
He was running away from the infection.
I would drown myself, or go to Gascony,
Or seek the far ends of creation,

If, when everybody gets back
To the Paris he's so much afraid of,
I should happen to cross the track
Of this pest I've had enough of.

— David Paul, Flowers of Evil (NY: New Directions, 1955)