Whither come you from?
Answer me, damn you:
You were wispy and sparse.
You were weedy and spare.
The top of my head had hair
And then didn’t
But now does again.
Never my face
Perhaps I have some Cherokee in me.
(I do not have any Cherokee in me.)
But now I am brambled.
My lip quivers under the novel weight.
What of my nasal integrity?
This may call for labial buttressing.
Good God, a pucker scaffold might just do!
The doctor did not mention this possibility.
I’m gonna get my wind back,
And I’m gonna pair it with my New Mustache,
And we’re gonna murder the Clanton Gang.
We’re gonna clean up this town.