Vidal “Bob” Sassoon has kicked his bucket
His heaters lie forlorn upon the floor
The king of Mayfair perms will mould no more
And maidens weep from here to distant Phuket.
He never cut no hair in grey Nantucket
Those frozen coasts he found a dreadful snore
Old Martha’s vineyard was a filthy chore
So west he rode and muttered “[unclear] Phuket.”
I had a killer sestet in mind, but the vino ran out.
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