“Herman, cut your hair!”

Echoed through the grove

If he’d heard it once or 1,000 times

Herman surely did not know


He rather liked the way his hair fell

Conveniently obscuring his face

From his overbearing mother

Whose branches crowded his space


Yet each time the wind blew

Herman let down his hair

Became a wood percussionist

And head-banged without a care


He sent shock waves through the grove

Rattling all the way to Old Man Oak

But if his mama had it her way

Herman’s music privileges she’d revoke


“And with a proper haircut

He’d be the cultivated son I have in mind.

No finer a proper tree

In our grove would one find.”


But Herman much preferred

His untamed leafy locks

“All the better to drown out Mama’s moaning

And to hide when I mimic and mock!”


A sudden hum rang out through the grove

That quickly turned into a buzz

Mechanical clippers sent by Mama

Approached where Herman was


In one fell swoop it happened

Something rather strange

His luscious locks were swiftly cut

Now Herman sported bangs


“Oh, Herman, what happened?”

His mama asked surprised,

“I really liked you better

When your hair hid your eyes!”


His eyes, Herman rolled

At Mama’s stinging words

“I just wished she had listened

Then maybe now, I wouldn’t look so absurd!”

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