THE MAN WITH THE SINGLE HAIR
by Robert Ganthony & Arthur H. Wood He was not bald... for on his shining cranium Remained one hair, it's colour pink geranium. Oh, how he idolized that single hair That, last of loved ones, grew luxuriant there. He counted it each morning: fondly viewed it This way and that way: carefully shampooed it. Brushed it, combed it, scented it, and oiled it, Dared scarcely put his hat on lest he spoiled it. In evening dress, arrayed for swell society, He'd part it in the middle for variety. Often he'd curl it, train it o'er his brow In navy fashion, as our middies now. Omitting nothing, with devoted care, He'd pet his hirsute pride, his single hair. But sad to tell! Ah bitter was the blow! There came a day, a day of direst woe. When in his soup it fell! He quickly spied it, Then rescued it, and on his napkin dried it, His only hair. His pet, his flowing tress, Chill was his forehead, deep his heart's distress. 'I'm bald at last' he wailed, in bitter grief, 'My only hair has fallen like a leaf. What ho! A taxidermist,' shouted he, 'I'll have it stuffed, for all mankind to see. And when, within its case of glass installed, The world shall see I was not always bald.'
The end