Explore "Towser" by Oliver Herford on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
My hair hangs down on either side / Like a Niagara small. / Why is it this, my greatest pride, / Should bring about my fall?
Why is it that my well brushed hair, / That now so smoothly lies, / As soon as I descend the stair / _Always_ gets in my eyes?
No wonder, thus deprived of sight, / I step on empty air / And to the bottom of the flight / Rebound from stair to stair.
I'm not the sort of dog that cares / To make a fuss when hit; / But falling down a flight of stairs / Is not the worst of it.
As there I lie completely out / Of breath and very flat, / Why is it _always_ some one stout / That takes me for a mat?