Long Wig Poems
Long Wig Poems. Below are the most popular long Wig by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wig poems by poem length and keyword.
A respectable girl was she; or so she appeared to be
Living alone in her dear little cottage at number seventy three
Each day she left home bright and early, as she walked to the railway station
Awaiting the train she would ponder upon her total transmogrification
Travelling first class to London, dressed in a suit and leather brogues
She was the picture of respectability, but nobody really knows
Heading straight for the club in Soho, where she was paid to perform
Descending the stairs, she took a deep breath, as she completely transformed
Into a girl named Sinitta, where dirty old men queued to meet her
She danced with seven fans and with carefully positioned hands
In her copper coloured wig, for she had nothing else to hide behind
Dancing in a trance, she would escape to her unconscious mind
She danced her eyes shut tightly, giving a zombie like display
Her only way of getting through the dance each working day
Whilst traveling home she calculated monies she would earn
For she had reached her breaking point; it was the point of no return
All monies that she’d earnt so far, went to support her dearest Ma
In the best asylum she could find; for sweet dear souls who’d lost their mind
Written 31st October 2018
Contest No 512
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st placement
[Pylon (UK) = Transmission tower or Electricity pylon (USA)
Domestos = Bleach]
_________________________________________________
Jeremy Wig was entirely bald
He sought the best hairpiece that he could afford
He opened his wallet which made the moths blink
With just a few coins he had to rethink
He went to a fancy dress shop for his hair
The price was unreal - like everything there
The wig that he purchased had hair made of nylon
He got a big shock when he walked near a pylon
People would laugh for his hair was a shocker
He looked like a seventies reject punk rocker
He hurried off home, wiped his feet on the mat
A static charge instantly toasted his cat
He went here and there, lightning bolts everywhere
Burning folk’s clothing and their underwear
Stark naked people with burned crinkly hair
All would curse Jeremy’s new nylon hair
People he knew learned to dress in asbestos
Someone said, “Let’s make the man drink Domestos.”
Whatever they said he just didn’t care
For he was so pleased with his new nylon hair
He went to a party and had some fun there
Even when six balloons stuck to his hair
A text that was typed made his hair stand on end
The fireworks started when someone pressed ‘Send’
When someone said, “Go back to just being bald.”
He thought of the horrible names he’d been called
He wasn’t prepared to be somebody’s joke
He pulled a balloon off… and went up in smoke
THE POWDERED WIG OF JOYCE JOHNSON
A wonderfully powdered wig,
like esoteric snow, fashioned
with an avalanche of wisdom,
for children and grands, too big.
The inscription on blessed face,
with so many poetically divine
words, wrinkled with fine lines,
aged flame of auburn’s embrace.
This hundred year so and so,
with so much artistic love, thrives,
through seasons of buttered life,
spreading beatific banquet for show.
Lord, you see the invisible one who
will one day meet your visible son.
Let ladies and gents court her words.
Let glorious fruit of Joyce’s voice accrue.
4/12/2018
Happy 100th Birthday!
Relates to poem by Joyce Johnson: I Feel Invisible
Oh, gaze upon the towering height,
A gravity-defying sight!
A masterpiece of horse and hair,
Held high upon the fabled stair.
No paltry scalp, no dull decree,
But architectural vanity!
From ancient Egypt’s royal reign,
To Versailles’ weeping, powdered pane,
The wig proclaims: “I own this space,
Regardless of my naked face!”
With scents of lavender and starch,
It marches past the swelling arc,
Concealing lice and graying dead,
A kingdom perched upon a head.
But look below the braided lace,
To where the scalp declares its case.
The fateful knot, the twisted rue,
Demanding praise and tribute due.
The tender-headed, weary plait,
A marathon of tug and wait.
With grease and ribbons woven tight,
It keeps the secrets of the night.
Yet, when the morning sun takes hold,
The tragedy of hair unfolds.
Flyaway, an epic old bag,
The dreaded, knotted, tangled shag.
A thousand hours at the drink,
To make a girl just pause and think:
“Why must this natural cyanide,
Cause every follicle to hide?”
So off it comes, the heavy plait,
Exchanging all for synthetic faith.
The wig is donned, the knot is fed,
A better, glued, and flawless head!
No frizz, no fuss, no morning dread,
Just instant “powder” in the spread.
When a wig maker saw my wife's hair, he adored it.
He wanted it and said that he'd pay top dollar for it.
So I cut me wife's hair off while she was asleep.
She walked out the door after calling me a creep.
Perhaps I did go too far.
But I wanted to buy a car.
I went to a used car lot and bought a beautiful red Camaro.
If you're wondering if I got away with it, the answer is no.
My wife went home to be with her mother.
And then I got a visit from her two brothers.
One came at me with an axe, I was lucky that my head wasn't severed.
The other torched my Camaro and covered me with tar and feathers.
It took four weeks to get that tar out of my hair and off my skin.
If I live to be a hundred, I'll never cut off a woman's hair again.
(This is a fictional poem)