An eyebrow I've to celebrate in verse,
Not for the eyebrow's sake, but Robert's purse,
Which he into the scales has rashly thrown
Against the meagre contents of my own,
And challenged me,—with odds at one to ten—
To mortal combat with the fountain pen.
Once honour was defended in the lists,
Later with foils, and later still with fists;
Once for a Captain's ear a nation rose
And deftly tweaked a foreign monarch's nose;
But now the times are soft, so by decree
The battle ground's a maid's anatomy:
I'm to defend with coupled rhyme and vow
Those noble arches stationed on the brow;
My rival courts a more plebeian muse—
He rhymes in ski-boots, not in dancing shoes,
And pedestals a lady just to see
A little more above her silken knee;—
For her fair legs he'll any foe combat
And fly her stocking from his pork pie hat.
But let Petrarch's platonic Muses sing,
For lo! the eyebrow spreads each pencilled wing
Till hovering o'er two limpid pools it flies,
Now rockets skyward in some mild surprise,
Or in obedience to its maker's wrath
It plunges down, and almost takes a bath.
Sing Heavenly Muses! Sing King's Chapel choir!
Sing while the poet plucks the Aeolian lyre;
Ring out ye spheres, and let the Sirens play
The latest numbers of Cab Calloway.
Sing young and old! the eyebrow is your theme,
Sing for its sake, or purely self esteem;
Follow the States, and let your voices raise
A harmony of self complacent praise,
And blow your trumpets loudly as you can,
The brow's the common heritage of Man:—
Of Man, I say,—for mostly you will find
Them artificial amongst woman kind.
Here's such a one, whose neatly tailored curve
Portrays its lady's tidy ways in “love”,
Its colour changing with the changing breeze
To match a dress, a car, or Pekinese;
So with her men—they're entered in a file,
One to match this, and one another style;
They are the pawns with which such ladies play
Their social chess 'neath Fashion's Awful Sway:—
The hearty type's the vogue for summer wear
With Spring moustache, of brave but struggling hair,
Whose jovial face, and simple minded cheer
Exudes stale stories, bonhomie and beer;—
A cricket bat's his god, a club his hearth
And darts his guide along the Primrose Path;
Or maybe Madam would prefer the blond
To match the water-lilies in her pond;—
For Point-to-Points Pitt is a certain nap
With Hunt-cum-Stoating suit, and soft tweed cap;
Then Cocktail time—a Pembroke man for thirst;
Oscar for Creme de Menthe and safety first;
White ladies,—veteran graduates from King's,
If Girton will detach their apron strings;
But should the drink be beer, before you go
Read “Fairbairn of Jesus” twice, and learn to row;
Such is the vamp; the coquette's more inclined
To stray and has the campaign less defined;
Her brows turn up to Heaven at each end,
With luck she'll seek for Heaven with a friend.
Then there's the brow convex, the brow concave,
The one inspires, the other foils the brave;
The brow brunette, the blond, the tawny red,
The brow that hints, and that where all is said;
The classic arch, Arden or Love anoints,
And last the shortest distance 'twix' two points.
Leap pedant reason's red official tape,
A little plucking makes them any shape,
Charcoal is far more fashionable than hair
So they can wander almost anywhere.
Can you with legs take liberties like these?
Will they conform to any mood you please?
The answer's NO!—so now that all is said,
I'll smooth my brow, and take my purse to bed.