In the country of the bores people never shut the doors, and they leave
the windows open, so you're always catching cold; and they lean against
your breast while relating moldy jest that had long and flowing
whiskers when by Father Adam told. In the country of the bores people
carry sample ores, and they talk of mines prolific till you buy ten
thousand shares; and they sell you orange groves and revolving fireless
stoves, while they loll upon your divan with their feet upon your
chairs. In the country of the bores every other fellow roars of the
sins of public servants and the need of better things; in a nation full
of vice he alone is pure and nice, he alone has got a halo and a flossy
pair of wings. In the country of the bores men who wish to do their
chores are disturbed by agitators who declaim of iron heels, urging
toiling men to rise, with chain lightning in their eyes and do
something to the tyrant and his car with bloody wheels. In the country
of the bores evermore the talksmith pours floods of language on the
people, who were better left alone. But that land is far away, and we
should rejoice today that we're living in a country where no bores were
ever known.