My loved but suicidal hat.
Have hats got souls, and can they hate?
Are street-boys higher than the brute?
Avails it to discuss of fate,
Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute?
Nay, why of all created things
Should new silk hats be made with wings?
I know not. Wherefore, oh ye powers,
Speed me to some deserted land,
Where blow no winds and fall no showers,