Our perfect heads can’t give us sense,
Though we are naught without them;3
Our useful tongues are mere pretense—
No talk or taste about them.4
Our locks though fine can ne’er be combed;5
Our teeth can never bite;6
Our mouths from out our heads have roamed,
And oft outgrow them quite.7
Our hearts no pity have, or joy,
Yet they’re our richest worth;8