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?”