Waiting To Be Headless

In ancient cities and times, kings, rulers and their often-faceless consorts, were exalted in marble statuary, yet so much of those effigies now remain headless. Those bygone exalted figures have lost their heads, (or occasionally the odd arm). I ask myself, where did all their heads go? Were they deemed to be sculptured flowers, doomed to be dead headed like roses, by stone-faced gardeners? The beheaded, the headless, litter history, it makes me want to check my own neck, to confirm my often weak-headed state. Heads are easy targets, you strike a light in the dark then some petty tyrant takes offence and poof, there goes your head. Genghis Khan played polo with human heads. If we were born with a dotted line around our necks we might put two and two together, we might be better prepared, for being booted around like footballs. If I had been clearly told to always keep my head up my ass, I might not have had this death wish, to write weird poetry.