Who will rid me of these meddlesome hairs,
sprouting ungodly from within my ears,
so dark and flagrant while all around greys,
yet hidden from my presbyopic eyes?
“Excuse me, not I, a thousand times no,”
my tantrumic coiffeur won’t snip so low;
“With hirsute auricles I can’t compromise,”
my barb’rous barber refuses to rise;
“The hand's my domain, I’ll not pass the wrist,”
dogmatic’ly says my manicurist;
“And don’t look at me, I only do skin,”
my dermatologist's excuse sounds thin.
“I’ll cut those hairs, clip your nails, paint your tan,
and then close your eyes,” smiles the mortician.
copyright Jiyue Publications 2012