The scuttlebutt on making the cut.
Hanging by a hair
My mane is mindless,
savage strew.
In short, these locks
ain’t got no clue.
Each tress does
trickle, ne’er to tame,
With no smooth shine
or form to frame.
My every fiber takes
a stand;
Each filament flies
out of hand.
I’d choose to charm these waves a-wild,
But they resist like
wayward child.
I’m overdue (You may
have guessed.)
To put the expert to
the test.
So sign me up. I’ll
bring my mess
For wonder-working
S-O-S.
c2016 by Linda Ann Nickerson
This poem was posted in response to these prompts:
Mad Kane Humor:
“frame”
Meme
Express: “sign me up”
One-Liner
Wednesday: “Ain’t got no clue”
Simply
Snickers: “charm,” “choose,” and “child”
Six
Word Sunday: Describe your life in six words. (See the subtitle.)
Stream
of Consciousness Saturday / #SoCS : Word/s ending in “-est”
Theme
Thursday: “smooth”
Thursday
Challenge: “hair”
Image/s:
Vintage/public domain image.