Classic Poem

Your mother, turning to me suddenly,
Caught the broad sunset on her triple chin
And nigh her ample and too friendly grin,
Where cheek joins neck in blown obesity,
A faint red whisker was confessed to me.
Suzanne! if you should feel a beard begin
Be resolute and to the hilts thrust in
These silvern tweezers that I send to thee ...

And if nor strength nor sleight of art avail,
Oh, still be resolute, Suzanne, and play
The nobler part; a dagger here I lay
Beside the tweezers, Sue ... My Thirtieth's tale
Deals with a Wart that naught could charm away;
A tale so sad, so sad! Ah, Welladay!