The changing of habits, old hats or sprung spats, Occurs first within the orbit of brims. There's more passion than fashion In the changing of hats; less wink of red ribbons, Than exultation, elation. The changing of hats, or birch soda for gin, Claims animus assuaged, old habits dismissed. But what we are is wicked, and kicks. Among tatty racks of offended tiaras, Old habits, old hats, stay only playfully away-- Awaiting inner halos, hidden horns To reassert their sway.