Classic Poem

Oh , a popular pest whom I hate and detest
With a hatred that's fervent and hearty
Is that volatile chap who is always on tap
And is known as The Life of the Party.
If you try to escape from a story or jape,
He'll arrest you with grasp that's prehensile,
And he's expert, he claims, at discovering games
That you play with a paper and pencil.

If there's one thing I hate with a loathing that's great,
Though my temper's elastic and tensile,
It's those rollicking games of historical names
That you play with a paper and pencil.

If an evening you'd spend at the home of a friend
In a manner that's restful and quiet,
He is sure to exclaim that he's learned a new game
And declare that you all have to try it.
Or he calls for some cards, and his speech interlards
With old stories so stale that they ache one,
While he shuffles them through and he hands them to you
And insists, with a grin, that you take one.

Oh, it drives me quite wild, though my temper is mild,
And I'm used to afflictions that shake one.
For my fun it retards when he shuffles the cards
And insists, with a grin, that I take one.

Every story and tale that he tells is quite stale
And you've heard them so often you hate 'em.
If he goes to a play and you meet him next day,
He'll repeat the performance verbatim.
Oh, it's sad how he strives to bring joy to our lives
With an energy frantic and fearful,
As he smiles and repeats to each person he meets:
“Oh, I love to see everyone cheerful.”

Yes, perhaps it seems strange, but we all like a change,
And at times I prefer to be tearful,
And I long for a rest from this jovial pest
Who just loves to see everyone cheerful.