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
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