What well-heeled knuckle-head, straight from the unisex Hairstylist and bathed in Russian Leather, Dallies with you these late summer days, Pyrrha, In your expensive sublet? For whom do you Slip into something simple by, say, Gucci? The more fool he who has mapped out for himself The saline latitudes of incontinent grief. Dazzled though he be, poor dope, by the golden looks Your locks fetched up out of a bottle of Clairol, He will know that the wind changes, the smooth sailing Is done for, when the breakers wallop him broadside, When he’s rudderless, dismasted, thoroughly swamped In that mindless rip-tide that got the best of me Once, when I ventured on your deeps, Piranha.