Chapter III: To Pyrrha

"_Quis multa gracilis._"

What young tin whistle gent,
Bedaubed with barber's scent,--
What cheapskate waits on you
To woo,
O Pyrrha?

For whom the puff and rat
And transformation that
You bought a year ago
Or so,
O Pyrrha?

Peeved? Not a bit. Not I
I'm sorry for the guy.
He draws a lovely lime
This time,
O Pyrrha!

I've dipped. The wet ain't fine.
Hung on the votive line
My duds. The gods can see
I'm free.
Eh, Pyrrha!