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THE THINNING OF THE THATCH.
[Illustration]
Oh, the Autumn leaves are falling, and
the days are closing in,
And the breeze is growing chilly, and
my hair is getting thin!
I’ve a comfortable income—and
my age is thirty-three;
But my Thatch is thinning quickly—yes,
as quickly as can be!
I was once a merry urchin—curly-headed
I was called,
And I laughed at good old people when
I saw them going bald;
But it’s not a proper subject to
be lightly joked about,
For it’s dreadful to discover that
your roof is wearing out!
I remember asking Uncle—in
my innocent surprise—
How he liked his head made use of as a
Skating Rink by flies;
But although their dread intrusion I shall
manfully resist,
I’m afraid they’ll soon have
got another Rink upon their list.
When invited to a party I’m invariably
late,
For I waste the time in efforts to conceal
my peeping pate—
Though I coax my hair across it—though
I brush away for weeks,
Yet I can’t prevent it parting
and dividing into streaks!
I have tried a Hair Restorer, and I’ve
rubbed my head with rum,
But the thatch keeps getting thinner,
and the new hair doesn’t come—
So I gaze into the mirror with a gloomy,
vacant stare,
For the circle’s getting wider of
that Open Space up there!
People tell me that my spirits I must
not allow to fall.
And that coming generations won’t
have any hair at all—
Well—they’ll never know
an anguish that can adequately match
With the pangs of watching day by day
the thinning of your Thatch!
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