You’re impressed by my instrument; I know – it’s terribly large;
Come listen to song – gaze upon me long; there is, of course,
absolutely
no
charge.
My hair is glorious, the wonder of the town;
But listen duplicitous friend, wear not a frown.
I may be a beauty, but alas my mane is my bane. For it is a wig, a syrup fig; that slips in a jig.
So I play in this tavern and stand still; singing in a voice cacophonous shrill.
Lest anyone should note, this fraudulent crown:
And off goes my street cred, all the way down.
Words and pics: ©DJA 2016.
The Angry Farmer 