"The softest lips, the sweetest mouth I kissed when I kissed you. My hesitating fingers felt Skin soft as morning dew. And eyes have yet to fall upon Hair of finger hue." Poets tend to say such things As if they weren't aware That lips are often soft to touch And young girls' skin is fair. That time, a sink, and Clairol Can tint most any hair. I felt as if a train of comely girls Not wearing any clothes With long, red hair arranged in curls From out my brain arose, Came and kindled crack-pipes And blew smoke up my nose. For sense is not experience As pigment isn't art, And when I kiss your painted lips, Though nerves have got their part, It's really something else that shakes My frightened, smitten heart.