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 afraid

There’s nothing re the hair of maid

  That I have left unstated.

‘Twill much relieve the constant strain

  Of rhyming to extol her

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 one

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 air

Outshines the moon, and everywhere,

  Love really laughs at locksmiths.