I grow old . . . I grow old . . .I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I will wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
—T.S. Idiot, er, Eliot