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March 26, 2012

 

That fickle hair doesn’t have a care

It’s wayward, an outcast

A persistent nuisance

Dancing wildly across the eyes

Impossible to catch

It’s out of control

A confounded pest

It’s a loner, a straggler

A rebel

An unwanted guest

Separated from the rest

Immune to lotions or spray

It’s a distraction

A show off

It demands centre stage

Fills the owner with rage

It’s mind boggling

A monster

Wafting to and fro

The blighter must go

There, it’s cut off in it’s prime

Ah, but wait

It has sisters and brothers

Silently queuing

Just waiting their chance

To break free from the others

And onto ones forehead prance

That single strand of hair

Is a nightmare

That can never be resolved

 

 

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