The Afghan’s a dog groomer’s joy
The definitive Lord Fauntleroy
But with all that coiffure
One is never quite sure
If the “she” is a girl or a boy
The thrill of my lips pressing softly on yours
The scent of jasmine, Mr. Happy's making overtures
Nothing outrageous golly gee
Just innocent repartee
Perhaps grabbing handfuls of your lower coiffure
Too much drink, someone had just implied
When she passed out, it couldn't be denied
Face down in stew
Rising askew
"There's a soup in my hair!", she then cried
A man said, "You're having trouble I see!"
"May I buy your meal and some coffee?"
She brushed off rice
And said, "Coffee's nice!"
"But it looks like the meal is on me!"
Mon Dieu she shrieked, I watched him standing there,
Beneath the Gogh, the suit was Weatherill.
He sipped cognac (Eden de Gautier)
And on his arm some filly from Brazil.
You heard, of course, poor dear, she knew the drill.
What must she think: her dress, she wore Chanel,
The shoes, Vuitton, I thought were overkill
But then she smiled; I swear he almost fell.
Madame, the coiffeur calls please take the chair.
She feigns a smile, the fragrance tastes Patou.
He's suave, he knows, he gently combs the air
And asks, Madame, what can I do for you.
She flicks her hair as if she's in distress.
He knows she knows that men have died for less.
- [ ]
Ladies of the Soup I bow in your honour
You curl up my toes, with images impure
My thoughts go askew
Bamboozled right through
Doing the naughties messes up my coiffure
© Jack Ellison 2015
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