To Edith Sitwell
“NEXT gentleman,” the nervous scissors wait
To spoil the hair off some reflecting pate.
“The unemployed, Sir?—half of them are thieves,
Who soil propriety like autumn leaves.”
I wait until my turn. The crack of doom
Summons me from a plush-protected tomb.
“Short round the edge, but not too short will do,
And then I think I’ll have a dry shampoo.”
The scissors ballet-dance about one ear,
Some hairs have fallen down my neck, I fear.
Another pas-de-deux about my eyes—
I do not care for such close harmonies.
But soon the cutting’s done, the barber says:
“The unemployed are dreadful, better days
“May come and make us more content, I hope.”
My head is buried in a cloud of soap,
Till down upon my head Niagara Falls
Descend with all the heat of music halls.
He dries my hair, and as I go he says:
“The unemployed are dreadful, better days——”
I slam the door and wonder, “Will he say
‘The unemployed, Sir,’ on the Judgment Day?”