Out of clips,
need no snips,
pate is chrome-
plated dome.
Got your mind on scintill’ shine—
you ain’t growing no hair.
’sute-free, shines up high;
got sorrow to say:
plume-clime time is done.
Boo-hoo you are gonna cry,
howl ’cause the fleece ain’t there.

I ask where
mounds of the keratin went;
mortal mane will not relent.
Looks kinda funny
with bumps and dents
where you’d once grown hair.
’sute-free, shine ’bove eye,
got sorrow to say:
maneline time is done.
Boo-hoo you are gonna cry,
howl ’cause: no fleecy fare.

Guys once hirsute
try nostrums that’s moot—
failed pates,
no shrubby shoots.
Strap yourself
like that creepy coot
with substitute fare.
’sute-free whiny guy;
got sorrow to say:
furry time is done.
Boo-hoo you are gonna cry,
howl ’cause the fleece repaired.

Club for men
prices are steep;
hair-plug things
also ain’t cheap.
Minoxidil? No frizzin’ creep—
at least you don’t get splits.
’sute-free, time to buy—
got sorrow to say—
a rug; do a Trump.
Crude dude’s thing ain’t gonna fly
off in the breezy air.