When I called you a stupid blonde,
I meant no connection between
the sunshine seasoned crown you don
and the gray pebbles held beneath
those ivory curtains that may trick
the younger boys you’re royalty,
but never me. If you shaved it,
exposed your head for them to see,
the lust would break and they would run.
Left powerless without your spell,
no longer blonde, you’re just as dumb
without your pelt, your only wealth.
Beloved friends have crowns as gold,
but their diadems mere ornaments
to tempered treasures they all boast
inside their mouths, their heads, their chests.
Their halos make their faces glow,
the Sun and stars envy their shine,
but yours accents the zits, the moles,
the texture of your plastic hide.
No, you aren’t dumb because of hair.
If you were, you’d have hope in dye.
Instead, your only hope is clear:
a noose or a bottle of lye.