When Beauty Is Bald

I’ve sung of Honor’s golden hair   And Hero’s auburn tresses,

Of Bella’s back abundance, where   The sun throws his caresses;

I’ve sung of curl, and coil, and braid;   On meshes I’ve dilated,

Until at last I’m sore

There’s nothing re the hair of maid   That I have left unstated.‘Twill much relieve the constant strain   Of rhyming to extol

When on the roof of Sophie’s brain   Appears a bright cupola.

The poet’s verse will freshly run,   Effects will come much faster,

If he may tell the darling

Her skull is glowing like the sun   And smooth as alabaster.

New stimulus the singer nerves,   When beauty, scorning switches,

Adds to her many swelling curves   A baldness that bewitches.

We’ve sung too many wigs,

I swear,   And now the poet mocks myths,

For Juliet in her head of

Outshines the moon, and everywhere,   Love really laughs at locksmiths.