In an old French book a man’s love
Takes off its hat to say goodbye;
Why is my love not like that?
I don’t think it’s ever owned a hat
And, if it did, it’s never worn it.
Unkempt, unshaven, stumble-tongued –
It knows nothing of good manners
(I wouldn’t be surprised if it drinks, too)
I could, I suppose, buy my love a hat
A jaunty one, with a tall feather --
But what if it then grew vain
And insisted I rig it out as a musketeer
Complete with cape and high boots
A tabard and, of course, a musket?
Not even in dreams does wisdom say
Teach your love the use of firearms.