Poetry Archives

So let me have the rouge again,
  And comb my hair the curly way.
The poor young men, the dear young men
  They’ll all be here by noon today.

And I shall wear the blue, I think—
  They beg to touch its rippled lace;
Or do they love me best in pink,
  So sweetly flattering the face?

And are you sure my eyes are bright,
  And is it true my cheek is clear?
Young what’s-his-name stayed half the night;
  He vows to cut his throat, poor dear!

So bring my scarlet slippers, then,
  And fetch the powder-puff to me.
The dear young men, the poor young men—
  They think I’m only seventy!