The Pun Poem by Ambrose Bierce

Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best,
Most rare and excellent bequest
Of dying idiot to the wit
He died of, rat-like, in a pit!

Thyself disguised, in many a way
Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play,
Adorning all where'er it turns,
As the revealing bull's-eye burns,
Of the dim thief, and plays its trick
Upon the lock he means to pick.

Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear
As boldly as a brigadier
Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er,
Of rank, brigade, division, corps,
To show by every means he can
An officer is not a man;
Or naked, with a lordly swagger,
Proud as a cur without a wagger,
Who says: 'See simple worth prevail
All dog, sir-not a bit of tail!'

'T is then men give thee loudest welcome,
As if thou wert a soul from Hell come.

O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace
Of skeleton clock without a case
With all its boweling displayed,
And all its organs on parade.

Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss,
Where _Punch_ and I can meet and kiss;
Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r
No higher his does ever soar.