I swear to you, I do not know--Where is The Land Where The Lost Hairties Go?
They huddle in multicolored masses
Speaking in tongues of strands and clumps
With tangles for their curses.
Tis a braid that makes up their Parliament
(though French or Dutch I can't ascertain)
And the prissy bun for the Queen.
They huddle in circles
(circles a little misshapen, like themselves)
And mourn lost comrades,
The ones who didn't escape in time,
Giving funerals at the garbage can.
The Land Where The Lost Hairties Go
Is a mysterious land indeed.
And I fear it will never be found.
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