Fashions
Fashion
on
fashion
on
fashion,
(With
only
the
truth
growing
old!)
And
here's
the
new
purple
of
passion,
(And
love
waiting
out
in
the
cold)
Who'll
buy?
They
are
crying
new
lamps
for
Aladdin,
New
worlds
for
the
old
and
the
true;
And
no
one
remembers
the
story
_The
magic
was
not
in
the
new._
They
are
crying
a
new
rose
for
Eden,
A
rose
of
green
glass.
I
suppose
The
only
thing
wrong
with
their
rose
is
The
fact
that
it
isn't
a
rose.
Who'll
buy?
And
here
is
a
song
without
metre;
And,
here
again,
nothing
is
wrong;
(For
nothing
on
earth
could
be
neater)
Except
that--it
isn't
a
song.
Well.
Walk
on
your
hands.
It's
the
latest!
And
feet
are
Victorian
now;
And
even
our
best
and
our
greatest
Before
that
dread
epithet
bow.
Who'll
buy?
The
furniture
goes
for
a
song,
now.
The
sixties
had
horrible
taste.
But
the
trouble
is
this--they've
included
Some
better
things,
too,
in
their
haste.
Were
they
wrapped
in
the
antimacassars,
Or
sunk
in
a
sofa
of
plush?
Did
an
Angelican
bishop
forget
them,
And
leave
them
behind
in
the
crush?
Who'll
buy?
Here's
a
turnex.
It's
going
quite
cheaply.
(It
lived
with
stuffed
birds
in
the
hall!
And,
of
course,
to
a
mind
that
thinks
deeply
That
settles
it,
once
and
for
all.)
Here's
_item_,
a
ring
(very
plain,
sirs!),
And
_item_,
a
God
(but
He's
dead!);
They
say
we
shall
need
Him
again,
sirs,
So--_item_,
a
cross
for
His
head.
Who'll
buy?
Yes,
you'll
need
it
again,
though
He's
dead,
sirs.
It
is
only
the
fashions
that
fly.
So
here
are
the
thorns
for
His
head,
sirs.
They'll
keep
till
you
need
'em.
Who'll
buy?
