It’s time to get my hair cut,
I’m going with my dad,
For reasons which I’ll now explain,
it could end up all bad.
I style my hair all spiky,
To hide all of my curls,
But Dad says hair with products in, is only meant for girls.
He wants my hair cut shorter,
I want to keep it long.
A style on which we don’t agree is bound to turn out wrong.
I wonder if he’s jealous?
Of my hair, thick and black,
For hair that once grew on his head, instead grows on his back.
Dad says, “I am not worried,
I’ve still got some up there.
It’s just when I was growing up, I grew right through my hair.”
Which can’t explain the hair that’s on
his bottom, ears, and nose.
There’s even weird and straggly hairs that sprout out from his toes!
Just now, I found this photo,
Of when Dad was my age,
His hair was lank and hippy, he says it was, "The rage."
A photo taken later,
Shows dad wearing a wig,
Which looks just like a crazy bush. It’s wild, fuzzy and big.
Some people have bad hair days,
Hair trouble, and hair strife.
With Dad though, days are not enough. He’s in a bad hair life.
I told the nice hairdresser,
I want a cool hairdo,
And not one of my dad’s hair-don’ts, he doesn’t have a clue.
She made it look exciting,
Cut like a lion’s mane,
And best of all, in three months time, my dad won’t come again!
Text ©2013 Alex Craggs
Illustration ©2013 Mike Brownlow
Since the day that I was born. I’ve been a sweet princess.
But why can’t I wear baggy clothes and not this stupid dress?
And why must I eat fancy food on fancy royal trips?
I don’t want stuff I can’t pronounce, I just want chips!
Pierre my French chef’s favourite dish is slimy,“Snail Surprise.”
The French surprises that I need are greasy yellow fries.
“But that's not really princess food. N'est pas?” he always quips.
I don’t want snails upon my plate, I just want chips!
Last night my parents entertained a foreign King and Queen,
For which I pulled the sweetest face the world had ever seen,
Until I ate Gazpacho soup with silly little sips,
I don’t want soup served freezing cold, I just want chips!
All I ever want to do is stuff my freckly face,
Instead of counting calories in Slow Grilled Lemon Plaice.
With every single bite I take, my bad mood drops and dips,
I don’t want fish served on its own, I just want chips!
I must go to a chippie where real people stop and eat,
Pile on the salt and vinegar, add ketchup for a treat.
I’d pick my little chip fork up and start to lick my lips,
I don’t want dreams that won’t come true. I just want chips!
What is this paper bundle that is stained in yellow grease?
My butler’s smuggled golden treasure past the food police.
I won’t care when I’m older and have wibbly wobbly hips,
I’ve got the food that I desire, I’m eating chips!
And they’re lovely!
Poem ©2012 Alex Craggs
Image ©2012 Sam Zuppardi