Blonde Poem
People
always judge me by the colour of my hair:
There's no Discrimination Act to stop it
I put the cute in persecute - I put the air in fair -
I got my friend to dye it red and chop it.
The
elfin crop was stylish, but it didn't do the trick;
My spatial understanding didn't alter:
I still got lost, bumped into things and wasn't very quick
When asked to give directions to Gibraltar.
Deciding
to go blonde again, to get back to my roots;
No more to be a slave to pigmentation,
I found my way to London, then wandered into Boots;
Seeking out the source of my salvation.
I
bought a little bottle, labelled 'Perfect Per-oxide'
Which reeked of nasty chemicals - I think it
Was a little strong, because I very nearly died;
Though the doctor said:
"You weren't supposed to drink it."
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