We Judge By Appearance Merely: If I Can't Think Strangely, I Can At Least Look Queerly. So I Grew The Hair So Long On My Head That My Mother Wouldn't Know Me, Till A Woman In A Night-Club Said, As I Was Passing By, "Hullo, Here Comes Salome ..." I Looked In The Dirty Gilt-Edged Glass, And, Oh Salome; There I Was - Positively Jewelled, Half A Vampire, With The Soul In My Eyes Hanging Dizzily Like The Gatherer Of Proverbial Samphire Over The Brink Of The Crag Of Sense, Looking Down From Perilous Eminence Into A Gulf Of Windy Night. And There'S Straw In My Tempestuous Hair, And I'm Not A Poet: But Never Despair! I'll Madly Live The Poems I Shall Never Write.