See her now, the homegrown Coiffure
Who seeks her hair’s perfection and poofs always to make sure
The product pricely purchased locks her locks behind a mure
Of hairspray fired eighty times a minute every five.
Smell it now, the woman’s scent,
Forcibly shoved up your nose with nowhere left to vent
The mousse that sapped the Coiffure of all she could have spent
On things of more importance than her sloppy, drab image.
It’s midnight now, upon the plain,
And still I hear the Coiffure’s comb coming ‘gainst the grain
And that hairspray bottle’s gas brings fever to my brain
As she sprays and sprays and sprays and remains just as plain
All the same.
Where is the Coiffure heading that requires so much pain
Between nowhere and midnight on this fume-infested train?
Morning's Early Dark 