Mortification Of A Haircut

The barber's favorite patron

fell out of the ruined rickshaw.

The streets were filled

with rivers of babel.

The handbags were adorned

with biceps

and stitched together

with veins of gold.

All turned on him.

They all turned on him.

"I am a liar," he cried.

"Before you introduce

your bitter lash

let my words 

serve as sackcloth

and ash."

The field surgeon

from Tarsus 

walked up 

and

produced a saw.

He said,

"If you've been living

by the law of your second

head, you is surely dying!"

Next comes a bottle.

Next comes a biting bullet.

The throngs in sunglasses

and credit card chain-mail

sculpt a gauntlet 

and sing Stephen Foster

while Susanna's banjo is sewn to 

his stump.

The patron staggers 

and groans.

His eyes swell and split

like a brat on a grill.

The ghost of Holofernes

and Huddie Ledbetter arrive

to lead the haircut off the field

in retreat.

"Don't take it so hard, Lancelot,"

sings Leadbelly.

"You only lost your head once.

You can still get your end away."