Art Is Long - Hair Is Shorter
When artists wore a flowing mane,
Then, in a sentimental vein,
With pastorals they lured the eye,
Or sad, sweet scenes of sea and sky.
But now that hair sprouts from the face
They chuck their paint about the place
And, in the modern manner, seek
To baffle one with the unique.
I've often wondered if this surge
Of hirsute foam denotes some urge
Artistic that controls and sways
The hand and brain to newer ways.
For instance, might we not expect
An artist in dundrearies decked
In other manner to behave
From him who wore a monkey shave?
I've known but one of this quaint throng
Who wore both hair and whiskers long,
But he, poor bloke, was short of cash,
And wore a full beard and moustache
That he might draw on this supply
When price of brushes soared to high ...
But there are ways, it seems to me.
To test my novel theory.
If some brave man would range the land
And catch a few of this quaint band
And hold them captive for a while
Who knows what tricks of school and style
One might evolve if, to each man,
We gave a different hirsute plan?
You doubt, perhaps? But all the same,
There might be money in the game.
The Exception
I dance upon the wash-house roof,
And fill my hair with straws,
And from my fellows keep aloof.
I'll tell you why. because
The glare in every eye I see,
I hear their talk inane;
For, sure as two and two are three,
All, all are mad as mad can be,
And I alone am sane.
Jones says, if we grow too much bread
The people may not eat;
And Smith declares in nervous dread,
More boots mean more bare feet.
Black says the price of gold must jump
Ere men was rich again.
White says the price of gold must slump;
For all the world is off its chump,
And I alone am sane.
I laugh and stand upon my head
Upon the wash-house roof.
If such an act men did not dread,
I'm sure and certain proof
They'd see me right side up. Why not?
The thing's as plain as plain.
But they look grave and gabble rot,
For all the world is off its dot,
And I alone am sane.
I am the great economist;
I stick straws in my locks;
For I've the truth that all have missed
In this world's paradox.
If all mankind would but agree
(Here lies our only hope)
That two and two must equal three,
They'd all grow sane again, like me;
And I'd stop chewing soap.
