The shaving took place later that Sunday, well after daybreak.
        See Peyton in the bathtub, squatting on the mat with scalp coated in foam, pillowed upon Skeeter’s rosy snorbs. See her perched behind him on the tub-edge, armed with a safety razor, singing variations on Sweeney Todd as she scraped merrily away:

        Attend the tale of Peyton D.’s,
        his skin was pale and looked like grilled cheese
        till he teamed up with a babydoll
        who shaved off the cheese and left nothing at all
                but Peyyyyton
                but Peyton D.—
        the demon baldy perfesser!

         “Or ‘sugardaddy confessor’—that scans fine too,” she added. “Hey, this IS a little like Educating Rita, isn’t it? Call me Rita the undressed hairdresser!”  
        “Lovely Skeeter meter maid.”
        “Aw! ‘Nothing will come between us.’” (Smooch.) “Ooh—you sure have got a kissable-smooth head now, thanks to me.”  
        “And you, I see” (said he, turning around) “are strawberry blonde both high and low.”  
        “Natural-born!” she boasted, sliding down to meet him.
        “Like oranges and lemons—”
        “—say the bells of St. Clement’s—”
        “—put down the razor—”
        “—say the bells of St. Blazer (cackle!)—”
        “—here comes a candle to light us to bed—”
        “—now that the chopper has smoothed out your head (ya HAAA!)—”
        Splish splash gurgle.
        Thus did they spend the Sabbath; and no Philistines took Peyton, or put out his eyes, or bound him with fetters of brass. • 

[Sadly, The Sidewalk's End is now gone from the Web.  Above is a replica of their March 2003 publication.]

Copyright © 2002-2008
by P. S. Ehrlich; All Rights Reserved.