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!