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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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