Classic Poem

Do I know him, this same Mr. Bright,
Who writes all the books and reviews;
Who parcels Parnassus by right,
And dictates terms to the Muse?

Why, we bow at the club, for form's sake
(Both belong to the Fiddlededee),
But I never ask him what he 'll take,
And he certainly never asks me.

We cut in as partners at whist,
And then I know him to my cost;
My trump signal always is missed,
The odd trick just as certainly lost.

We meet on the Pillowsham nights —
You know those hebdomadal treats,
Where one young woman recites,
And another young woman repeats.

Where it 's literature, music, and art
(With agnostics by way of relief), —
When he takes the floor, I depart;
Life is so uncommonly brief.

We are friends, I 'm perfectly sure;
But this seems the status , alas:
He thinks I am but a flaneur —
I think him a ponderous ass.