I met a friend of lofty brow —
As lofty as the laws allow.
I said to him, “You'll know, I'm sure —
What's doing now in litrychoor?”
Said he: “I hate the very name;
I'm weary of the blooming game.
I read, whenever I have time,
Something by Phillips Oppenheim.”
“Cheer up!” said I. “What's new in Art?—
You drift around the picture mart.
What do you think of Mr. Blum?—
Some say he's great, some say he's bum.”
“I'm strong for Blum,” my friend replied;
“His pictures are so queer and pied.
I would n't change them if I could;
I'd rather have things queer than good.”
I spoke of this, I spoke of that,
But everything was stale and flat.
Said I, “You once adored the chaste,
You used to have such perfect taste.”
“Good taste,” he wailed, “brings but distress,
‘ Tis an affliction, nothing less;
While those whose taste is punk and vile
Are happy all the blessed while.”
“Oh, take a brace, old man!” said I.
“Let me prescribe a nip of rye,
And then we'll go to see a play;
I've two for Barrymore to-day.”
“No, no,” he groaned; “‘ twould be a bore,
With all respect to Barrymore.”
Said I: “Then whither shall we go?”
Said he: “A moving picture show.”