Though clubs without number are suited to slumber, How few (as has often been noted) To rest and reposing, to dreaming and dozing, Are quite so completely devoted As that which is labelled, in language poetic, The final resort of the peripatetic!
Here peace may be relished, in rooms unembellished By portraits, by prints or engravings, On sofas of leather, designed altogether To satisfy somnolent cravings, Where, clutching the _Times_ or the _Chronicle_ tightly, A member may slumber in public politely.
A subtle aroma, conducive to coma, Which renders the coffee-room pleasant, Proves gratefully cloying to diners enjoying A snooze 'twixt the fish and the pheasant. The air, as it were, is with somnolence seething, And nothing is heard but their stertorous breathing!
No card-games are played here, and even 'Old Maid' here Its votaries find uninviting; You might get a quorum for (say) 'Snip-snap-_snorem_,' But 'Patience' is deemed too exciting; While rubbers of Bridge (should you chance to require some) With partners all 'sleeping' prove terribly tiresome!
These precincts hypnotic provide a narcotic, And trav'llers (all subterfuge scorning) Curl up on their quarters, and tell the hall-porters To call them next Saturday morning; And even explorers, their rambles arrested, Become as 'Club-footed' as some one suggested!
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