The Humorist - Poem by Ambrose Bierce
'What is that, mother?'
'The funny man, child.
His hands are black, but his heart is mild.'
'May I touch him, mother?'
''T were foolishly done:
He is slightly touched already, my son.'
'O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?'
'That's the outward sign of a joke within.'
'Will he crack it, mother?'
'Not so, my saint;
'T is meant for the _Saturday Livercomplaint.'
'Does he suffer, mother?'
'God help him, yes!
A thousand and fifty kinds of distress.'
'What makes him sweat so?'
'The demons that lurk
In the fear of having to go to work.'
'Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?'
'Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope.'
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