We gather at the end of day Provided that it’s not too breezy We try to look quite natural But God alone knows it’s not easy We keep one hand upon our rug Until we’re safe inside the bar There’s nothing less undignified Than chasing wigs from door to car
Some say our bold displays betray Our hands now losing grip on youth Our medallions and widening girth Show we’re miles long in the tooth We must be frank – we’re getting old And unattractive, it’s often said We’re part of the “Bad Toupe Club” We’re clothed and covered, but not yet dead!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderfully clever...almost makes toupees sound chic...I've long given in to age and thank god bald is in...Coach