Random Prompt #14

[Tiger the Lion]

Hey everyone. I decided against having a monthly theme for March because I didn't want to take away from NaPM. 
I do think it might be fun to do some stretching first though. So, I thought a few random prompts between now and April 1 might help...

Write a poem inspired by a bad haircut.

Bonus points for using the words "tree," "ploy," and/or "voice." 

*** a reminder that prompts are not rigid. Poems about boxing, dogs or caterpillars will not be considered out of place.  

Go!

[busker]

Getting a haircut c. 2008

I got a haircut
Hurray hurray
Not.
I got a haircut
Today.
And tomorrow’s brot
Will not be the same
Without a penny to your name,
Lender.
You’ve been put through the blender
And some’d call you Bender
Because you’ve been taken advantage of.

For I speak of a financial haircut
That is so much the norm today
From easy money
Yesterday.
Milk and honey
From bankers eyeing a great big bonus.
The gravy train was to run, Jonas,
Till Jesus came again.

[TranquillityBase]

I was a penniless prospector
out of St. Louis
when I felt the Sioux warrior
plant his knee on my back
then gripping my hair
the sharp slice round my cranium
and the plopping sound
as he ripped my scalp free.

I lived, tried farming and failed.
My head bought me drinks
but nothing else
until Pearson’s Carnival came to town.
Now I sit inside a tent 
beneath a powerful lantern.
I tell my story, take off my hat 
to scattered gasps, the occasional shriek.
Women close their eyes, children stare,
but the men seem embarrassed.
For a nickel they can come up and look
for a dime, give it a rub.
Sometimes, I make $10 in a day.

I smoke good cigars 
drink premium whiskey
and women are not out of reach,
all this good fortune 
inherited from a savage.

I do wonder about my scalp,
how does it fare?
I’ve read they dance it welcome
the warriors in a circle,
in the center, young girls 
holding the bloody trophies aloft,
and now it’s riding free on the plains.
Not a bad turnout for either of us.

[Tiger the Lion]

Kinky Hair

By the time I was eight-months-old
I had what dozy people 
still refer to as an "Afro."

Mom was Irish 
and Dad Scottish,
so they freckled in May
and were sunburned by June--

every hair on their head and body
a translucent strawberry blond.

My coffee complexion aside,
Mother insisted that "kinky hair"
was the appropriate term.

[Wjames]

Four months after the first joint your friend stole from his sister
coughed the evening tobagganing down truckers hill crisp,
your mother insists you are not Bob Dylan
and a cut is absolutely necessary.

She tells the barber you're fit for the military
and the clippers thrum like boots
marching down a protest.