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.
