Moustachioed musketeer
I pulled his hair and he mustered a tear
I bet he’s glad it weren’t the T-bone beard,
Cross the T’s and dot the eyes,
No reply for a receding hairline
Other than ‘at lees it dun’t get in mah eyes’.
Sure, but belittling belies my ill fitting ego,
Ergo, I’ll go where he goes
And make sure that he knows
I’m in it for the long haul,
Like Westbrook and coke.
Weird though, how the five finger span
Of a forehead grows, hair hung up
Like the tail of a thouroughbred
‘Cept it’s tied so tight it pulls the hair off his head.
Strands left in bed and on his pillow
Poor fellow, hands tobacco yellow
Mellowed in old age, former hell raiser
With a smart casual twist –
Mmm-hmm, finger click,
Tucks an arm into the other pit,
Sweaty Betty for the fingertips,
Tippy-tapping on the screen,
There’s no point in claiming to like it
Cos it’s all becomes old news
Just as soon as you swipe it.