TO PYRRHA

By Bert Leston Taylor

What young tin whistle gent,

Bedaubed with barber's scent,—

What cheapskate waits on you

To woo,

O Pyrrha?

For whom the puff and rat

And transformation that

You bought a year ago

Or so,

O Pyrrha?

Peeved? Not a bit. Not I

I'm sorry for the guy.

He draws a lovely lime

This time,

O Pyrrha!

I've dipped. The wet ai n't fine.

Hung on the votive line

My duds. The gods can see

I'm free.

Eh, Pyrrha!