Though I coax my hair across it—though I brush away for weeks,
Yet I can't prevent it parting and dividing into streaks!
I have tried a Hair Restorer, and I've rubbed my head with rum,
But the thatch keeps getting thinner, and the new hair doesn't come—
So I gaze into the mirror with a gloomy, vacant stare,
For the circle's getting wider of that Open Space up there!
People tell me that my spirits I must not allow to fall.
And that coming generations won't have any hair at all—
Well—they'll never know an anguish that can adequately match
With the pangs of watching day by day the thinning of your Thatch!