Classic Poem

S UZANNE , I bid you fling aside your comb
And down the wind let stream your burning hair!
My soul, perchance, through midnights of despair,
May see it, Sultry Kid, and flutter home!
Or is there danger in that flaming dome? ...
Suppose I fluttered moth-like, frying there
Unto a crackling, Susan! ... would you care,
My pink-beaned Venus crowned with fiery foam?

My Fifth Wife had a wad of hair herself;
She used to wash and wash and wash the stuff;
I canned her, Sue; I put her on the shelf;
I like clean hair, but still, enough's enough. . . .
She'd get it dry the radiator way. . . .
How these old griefs return! Ah, welladay!