In the time: BCE, (before the Covid era),
the follicles upon my skewed double crown,
sprouted a mere keratin, carrot like shrub,
but with those barber’s shears put to bed,
I have had no choice; but to grow out the red,
to look like the ancients, either I be a Greek,
or maybe, I will walk by the Jehovah’s Witness place,
where they will look at me; with a scared pale face,
as if they had seen their lord, or an apostle,
but please, we both know; that is far from the truth,
so, let me stroll down into town, with my lion’s mane,
where I will be the topic; of both compliment and shame,
a lout may bark “Oi! Are you the Stig of the Dump!”
But then some kind words say “what a fine looking clump!”
Thus, when it is rainy; I shall cover it, to protect my colour,
with my profile picture hat, acting as my cradle like smother,
but when the sun does shine; with its flame, proud glows,
I will point at my head, and state to Helios that “we are bros!”