"If you feel, as I do,"
Said the man with the long, long black lashes,
"That life is a matter of déniaisage,
Of shaving off timidity's every layer,
Then we shall get on."
He lit a Pall Mall
And put his lips around it
As I put my hips into
My surprise
Why, he thinks I'm some French shallot!
Some waxy Lady of Shalott
And my fair face grist for his mill!
And my grace all unmattering!
"My intent is not to humiliate,
Stripping down is not stripping away
And your face, well, lady,
Face it
You know you're forty,
Don't you, and really,
It's way past time
You graduated."
