Hair
The first year of sixth form, the boys are there too,
Michael Jackson, Dire Straits compete with Kung Fu
Equations and theorems explained to the whiteboard,
They’re making no sense and striking no chord.
A shiny round patch, as pink as the panther,
Bald headed professor, he was quite a ranter.
I’m bored and annoyed, this was not maths
Deft fingers work quickly, turn hair into plaits.
Two antennas emerge, in place of a fringe,
And with just one look, if eyes could singe…
Fuming and foaming, he points a finger,
At me, then the door, and I, dare I linger?
Oblivious and puzzled, I look for a reason
I’m being sent out, but committed no treason.
I tell the headmaster I am at a loss
‘You mock with your hair, that’s why he is cross.’
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