Hair Peace
An aging gnome
now often roams
far from his home
in search of combs
and styling foam.
The little hair
that’s left up there
upon his dome,
he cannot bear,
that patterned bald,
foul chromosome.
He went to Nome
and also Rome
but could not find
a proper tone.
Then, in his glee,
a hat did see,
so now he dons
a cap of chrome
and all is well,
all is shalom.
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