A Symposium
There was a Russian novelist
Whose name was Solugubrious,
The reading circles took him up,
(They’d heard he was salubrious.)
The women’s club of Cripple Creek
Soon held a kind of seminar
To learn just what his message was—
You know what bookworms women are.
The tea went round. After five cups
(You should have seen them bury tea)
Dear Mrs. Brown said what she liked
Was the great man’s sincerity.
Sweet Mrs. Jones (how free she was
From all besetting vanity)
Declared that she loved even more
His broad and deep humanity.
Good Mrs. Smith, though she disclaimed
All thought of being critical,
Protested that she found his work
A wee bit analytical.
But Mrs. Black, the President,
Of wisdom found the pinnacle:
She said, “Dear me, I always think
Those Russians are so cynical.”
Well, poor old Solugubrious,
It’s true that they had heard of him;
But neither Brown, Jones, Smith, nor Black
Had ever read a word of him!