Towser

My hair hangs down on either side
Like a Niagara small.
Why is it this, my greatest pride,
Should bring about my fall?

Why is it that my well brushed hair,
That now so smoothly lies,
As soon as I descend the stair
Always gets in my eyes?

No wonder, thus deprived of sight,
I step on empty air
And to the bottom of the flight
Rebound from stair to stair.

I’m not the sort of dog that cares
To make a fuss when hit;
But falling down a flight of stairs
Is not the worst of it.

As there I lie completely out
Of breath and very flat,
Why is it always some one stout
That takes me for a mat?