The Bald Truth

A man who early lost his hair,
Bewailed the growth that wasn't there.
He raked it lightly with a comb,
Then sprinkled it with blood and bone.

Early in the spring alas,
He'd grown a head of bright, green grass
Where here and there, just one or two,
Perennial weeds and daisies grew.

A passing bird with careless croak
Then dropped an acorn from an oak,
Which in due course pushed up green spears
And roots that shot down through his ears.

His doctor said, "Now my poor man,
I'll try to help you if I can,
I really think that you'd be wiser
To stay away from fertilizer."

"These roots are blocking up your brains,
Just as they will block up drains,
I'll send you to a plumber who,
Will operate at once on you."

The plumber was both quick and skilled
As through the ears and brain he drilled,
With a sort of whirling thing
To destroy roots that poke and cling.

So, with just a gentle chatter,
It plowed through the man's gray matter,
Its twists and turns and convolutions
With fast, vibrating revolutions.

Yet I'm afraid it must be said,
The operation on his head,
Though clever, neat and very nifty,
Succeeded only fifty-fifty.

The roots all died as was the plan,
Regretfully, so did the man.