Oh give me a comb
to bouffantize my dome…
grab some here and go the other way.
This pelt is absurd…
when some weather’s occurred,
’way it flies on cloudy, windy days.

Comb-combover’s strange
grab some here and go the other way.
This pelt is absurd…
like shelter for a bird.
’way it flies on cloudy, windy days.

It takes half the night
to get it set up right.
The hair gel glistens, but there’s no part.
The gel’s just like a glaze
on a keratin maze.
I buy it at the local drug mart.

Combover’s arranged…
grab some here, hope in place it will stay.
This pelt ain’t inured
to the wind; it gets stirred
when head zephyrs make it fly away.

It cannot withstand
tousling by the hand
of my old aunt who just cannot seem
to keep roving mitts off
architectural coif
that bedecks the apex of my bean.

Combover’s arranged
in a way that I wish it would stay.
This pelt ain’t inured
to digits that have stirred
it and made every strand go astray.