When Beauty Is Bald

Ive sung of Honors golden hair     And Heros auburn tresses,     Of Bellas back abundance, where     The sun throws his caresses;     Ive sung of curl, and coil, and braid;     On meshes Ive dilated,     Until at last Im sore afraid     Theres 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 Sophies brain     Appears a bright cupola.     The poets 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.     Weve 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.