The Man Who Snores

There’s the man who tells us stories

     Oft recounting all his glories

When he pitched upon the diamond, winning laurels for his team;

When he was a noted punter,

     Or a most successful hunter,

Or the trophy winning angler when he fished the swirling stream.

     There’s the man who tells us riddles,

     Or the man who poorly fiddles,

All of whom we fain would christen as lot of daily bores;

     But the worst in our opinion

     In the blessed whole dominion,

Is the man who rooms below us with his deep sonorous snores.

     We can stand the cricket calling,

     We can stand the caterwauling

Of the melancholy pussies as they ventilate their cares;

     And the milkman on his mission

     Doesn’t alter our position,

Nor the late, two A.M. boarder who comes falling up the stairs.

     But there ought to be an island

     Some far distant low or highland

Just a fair secluded region miles beyond our quiet shores,

     For that offspring of perdition

     Who beyond the thin partition

Fairly penetrates the welkin with his deep, resounding snores.

Nov. 20, ‘09

For Monday, Nov. 22, ‘09

welkin – the vault of the sky,  firmament, the celestial abode of God or the gods, heaven, or the upper atmosphere.

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/welkin