I don't know why, so prey, why is it there, Piled upon our heads, some greasy, some dry, Most varied in hue, I ask you. Why, Do some people find it necessary to dye, This stuff on the cranium that we call hair?
Most hair departs before we, from this life, In the years between, we comb and we groom, This strange adornment resembling a broom, Until it is 'dressed’ to become a festoon, To allure a husband or if you're a man, a wife.
With ladies, in time, it mainly turns grey, But in men the transition is much more severe , After greyness, from the head it will all disappear, And it spurts from the face, the nose and each ear, And the eyebrows grow bushier by the day.
I don't know why so prey, why is it there, This fluff that when shaved as clean as a whistle, Almost immediately turns to bristle, So sharp in texture, it pricks like a thistle, This stuff on our persons that we call hair?
WHY?
Have you ever really stopped to think, Why turnips are sometimes splashed with pink, Why carrots when lifted from the ground, Are long and narrow instead of round, And those turnips when turned from the furrow, ARE round and NOT so long and narrow?
Have you ever really stopped to perceive, Why fishes underwater, breath, And swim and mate in aqua terrain, And every year they do it again, But why human beings would stay below, If dunked too long in H-2-0?
Have you ever really stopped to wonder, Why noses always have mouths there-under, And nagging wives, who husbands fear, Have mouths that run from ear to ear, And timid spouses to whom they're wed, Seek their solace in the shed?
Have you ever stopped to postulate, Why certain people aggravate, Why most are easy friendly types, But some are simply quarrelsome tykes, And how it is, the latter end, Without a single, solitary friend?
KICKING THE HABIT
The addiction to tobacco is a profanity, But trying to stop it can lead to insanity, The result being worse than the effects of the weed, So here's what to do if you want to succeed.
Simply postpone the next fag you're about to light, Then keep on postponing it by day and by night, Then in less than two years, or sooner maybe, You can boast about being a NON SMOKER, like me!
BOOZE
Ever since alcohol’s been invented, It’s never been purchased, always rented, And only thus for a minute or three, Thenceforth it simply MUST be free!
LOST INTERSTICES
Is my loft, any different from most, Should it, like others, have a ghost, Should it have a deal of space, Or are all like mine, a disordered disgrace?
No ghoul would have the room to prance, It wouldn't stand a ghost of a chance, To frighten even the smallest mouse, In the cluttered-up attic above my house.
There are empty boxes, by the score, And on top of them, even more, And books all scattered, grimy and worn, With yellowy pages all creased and torn.
In one corner there's an old armchair, And only God knows how that got there, Toys from an age, left behind, Non-electronic and with keys to wind.
There's an old television I'd never seen, With knobs on, and a nine inch screen, An oil painting of sheep at pasture, But my instinct tells me that it's no old master.
Interstices are far and few between, It's darker than anywhere else I've been, The sound of water dripping as well, Like the Everglade swamps, a midnight hell.
There is only one thing that my loft lacks, The presence of floor boards between the slats, As I discovered when I fell though, And broke my arm, - and ankle too !
