It tickles my chest perched on my undershirt,
and teases my neck wraped around my ear.
For an itchy nose it strings along, a just cause.
In my pants, on my leg, it gives pause.
An attachement to every sweater with brown and auburn shine,
You thread, you pest, you hair, you are not mine.
Ha! you can clog my drain 'til I pull you out with pliers, all tangled and pasted with soap scum.
I see you even clinging to the damn wall!
I will make peace with you, hair. It seems that you will always be...there. And there. Oh my God, and there.
