Chopped off that strand of hair,
An inch or two short?
Long hair was old-school,
"Inconvenient" you would say.
What about your skirt?
Was that troublesome too?
Perhaps your legs couldn't breathe,
Oh, that suffocation I know!
A world where good old novels,
Are shortened shamelessly,
To terribly tiny scribbled micro tales.
Of course it is nothing wrong.
Your hair, skirt and words,
Can be almost only an inch long.
It's just your narrow mind,
That puts me in a whirlpool of fear.
Along with that piece of cloth,
Your ideas growing short.
Trimming your wavy string of hair,
A part of your barely existing brain,
Hanging outside was diminished too.
I wish your now visible thighs,
Could make up for intellect.
With all my heart I wish you,
Happy shortening, sweetheart,