1837, E. D. Kennicott, Zethe: and other poemsAcross his back a stringless bow, And emptied quiver swung, — And in his sinewy hand, he bore His scalpy trophies — red with gore.
2008, Ray Robinson, The Man Without (page 314)The synaesthetic mix of her deep smile, the scalpy chemical pong of the salon.
2013, Lisa Jewell, The House We Grew Up In (page 396)I could smell his scalpy hair smell. see the way he used to sit with his knees together and his toes pointed in.
