AuburnScribbler

Mane

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!”