According to the Ladies' Press,
Who would be really smart must dress
In crimson puce or purple hair:
My Phyllis doesn't leave it there,
But less than ever doth she seem
Content with Nature's colour-scheme.
Her brow is scarlet; week by week
New tints bedeck her maiden cheek.
(To-day they wear the pleasing hue
Which Fashion calls "electric" blue,
And, when their owner's startled, show
A healthy blush of indigo.)
Her sense of artistry appears
In what she does about her ears;
With colours of the naval sort
She marks the starboard from the port.
Her lips are lemon; underneath
Appear her willow-pattern teeth.
* * * * *
But when, to serve another end,
She threatened to adopt a blend
Of tints with which I cannot cope--
The green and white and heliotrope,
"You know," said I, "your business best;
Myself, I lose all interest.
In other words, it may be said,
My love for you is frankly dead."
"Alas," she answered, "and alack!" ...
Her nose is now in mourning (black).
* * * * *
[Illustration: "TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION."]
* * * * *