I had the strangest feeling
That if I cut my hair
All of my crazy poem ideas
Would suddenly disappear

Like Samson with Delila
I'd loose that added edge
If I didn't keep this mop top
On top of my knotted head

All the poetry would be zapped from me
And I would lose my purpose
Start rhyming things like moon with June
At that point my pen would be worthless

But I couldn't take it anymore
It was driving me insane
So I got out the heavy duty shears
And did something about this mane

I now see the pile in front of me
Expecting the Philistine's to crash through the door
But the only action that there is
Is me sweeping my curley remains up off the floor

I now face the day in front of me
Showing no lack of courage
Continuing in my quest
Of looking for that elusive word that rhymes with orange