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——”