Oh what a thrill I know it be,

To see the things I often see,

To stroke the rigid digits of teeth,

And make mine music sound so sweet,

The thin, smooth, poem of wood so grand,

This comb I hold upon my hand!

I only gaze upon its face,

I hold it in my warm embrace,

At times, at night, it kisses me,

With splintry lips of ebony,

I question not the royal brand,

I’m blessed to hold this in my hand!

The barber gets to trim His beard,

The nurse, His children, gets to rear,

The harpist harps, the singer sings,

The jeweler crafts him diamond rings,

Yet none has yet to understand,

How feels His comb upon my hand!

The masses under righteous might,

Can pay the baron or the knight,

While minstrels sing of battles won,

As poets write and talk of love,

But need not I a mighty band,

To treasure my comb-holding hand!