How few of us contrive to shine...

How few of us contrive to shine

In ordinary conversation

As brightly as this human mine

Of universal information,

Or give mankind the benefit

Of such encyclopaedic wit.

How few of us can lightly touch

On any topic one may mention

With so much savoir-faire, or such

Exasperating condescension;

Or take so lively a delight

In setting other people right.

Whatever you may do or dream,

The Man Who Knows has dreamt or done it;

If you propound some novel scheme,

The Man Who Knows has long begun it;

Should you evolve a repartee,

“I made that yesterday,” says he.

With what a supercilious air

He listens to your newest story,

As tho’ your latest legend were

Some chestnut long of beard and hoary.

“When I recount that yarn,” he'll say,

“I end it in a diff'rent way.”

With a superior smile he caps

Your ev'ry statement with another,

If you have lost your voice, perhaps,

He knows a man who's lost his mother;

If you've a cold,‘ tis not so bad

As one that once his uncle had.

Should you describe some strange event

That happened to a near relation,—

Some fatal motor accident,

Some droll or ticklish situation,—

“In eighteen-eighty-eight,” says he,

“The very same occurred to me.”

Each man who dies to him supplies

A peg on which to air his knowledge;

“Poor So-and-So,” he sadly sighs,

“He shared a room with me at college.

I knew his sister at Ostend.

He was my father's dearest friend.”

If you relate some incident,

A trifle scandalous or shady,

An anecdote you've heard anent

Some wealthy or distinguished lady,

He stops you with a sudden sign:—

“She is a relative of mine!”

When on some simple point of fact

You fancy him impaled securely,

He either smiles with silent tact,

Or else he shakes his head obscurely,

Suggesting that he might disclose

Portentous secrets, if he chose.

But if you dare to doubt his word,

At once that puts him on his metal;

“Your facts,” says he, “are quite absurd!

As for Mount Popocatepetl,—

Of course it's not in Mexico;

I've been there, and I ought to know!”

Or “George, how you exaggerate!

It is n't half-past seven, nearly!

I make it seven-twenty-eight;

Your watch is out of order, clearly.

Mine cannot possibly be slow;

I set it half an hour ago.”

He knows a foreign health-resort

Where tourists are quite inoffensive;

He knows a brand of ancient port,

Comparatively inexpensive;

And he will tell you where to get

The choicest Turkish cigarette.

He knows hotels at which to dine

And take the most fastidious guest to;

He knows a mine in Argentine

In which you safely can invest, too;

He knows the shop where you can buy

The most recherche hat or tie.

If you require a motor-car,

He has a cousin who can tell you

Of something second-hand but far

Less costly than the trade would sell you;

And if you want a chauffeur, too,

He knows the very man for you.

There's nothing that he does n't know,

Except — a rather grave omission —

How weary his relations grow

Of such unceasing erudition,—

How fervently his fellows long

That just for once he should be wrong.

O Man Who Knows, we humbly ask

That thou shouldst cease such grateful labours —

Suspend thy self-inflicted task

Of lecturing thine erring neighbours;

For in thy knowledge we detect

No faintest sign of Intellect.