Out On the Fringes

Time is of the essence, when I get my hair cut, Impatiently waiting in turn, gives me dandruff, Barber’s damn slow, chatting, making small talk Oh hurry up man, I’m in need of a new Mohawk Three more ahead of me, staring at the walls, At least two of them, already suspiciously bald But the other one, he has me seriously scared Wears a big long coat, his hairy feet laid bare At last it’s my turn, barber asks what’ll it be A fantastic punk style, nice and spiky suits me So off he goes, razors and scissors a blazing Going cold on top, I’m sure I feel him shaving Ok we’re all done, that’ll be twenty five bucks I look in the mirror, to see a scalped Friar Tuck What the hell I yell, that’s nothing like a punk Oh dear thought you said, a monastic monk I’m a holy show now, of that you can be sure All I require is a robe, go with my new tonsure By David Kavanagh