Classic Poem

So let me have the rouge again,
And comb my hair the curly way.
The poor young men, the dear young men —
They'll all be here by noon today.

And I shall wear the blue, I think —
They beg to touch its rippled lace;
Or do they love me best in pink,
So sweetly flattering the face?

And are you sure my eyes are bright,
And is it true my cheek is clear?
Young what's-his-name stayed half the night;
He vows to cut his throat, poor dear!

So bring my scarlet slippers, then,
And fetch the powder-puff to me.
The dear young men, the poor young men —
They think I'm only seventy!