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.
