Bedhead Blues

I bought the best bedhead
my best money could buy.
My bedhead bought in low
then sold me out high.
       Left me broke. With a broke bedhead.

I got my bedhead back
on a promise I could keep.
My bedhead went and cheated on me
soon as I went back to sleep.
       Found itself a better bed. Better head too.

I made my bedhead
my one and only.
My bedhead made me
alone and lonely.
       Made for each other, ain’t we.

I gave my bedhead
the very best I had.
My bedhead was no better
than my poetry: bad.
       Hey, you don’t need to tell me.
       I can see my own mirror.

I cautioned my bedhead
by waving a comb.
My bedhead sat back,
made itself at home.
       Sometimes metaphors just don’t fly, do they.

My bedhead made out
with the bedhead next door,
didn’t come crawling back
until well after four.
       Barely in time. Just barely.

I’m in desperate need
of trimming up my shag.
My bedhead won’t allow me to.
Jeez, what a drag!
       Damn bedhead would run my life if I let it.

I wanted to write a poem
to give my bedhead a kiss.
My bedhead went silent
leaving me this.
       Bedhead blues.





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