It had decided a long time ago
Which direction it wanted to grow
No reason, no rhyme
It would only get more stubborn with time.
Not curly but with swerves and dips
It couldnít be tamed, not even with a whip
It will forever defy blow-dryers of today
Not even stiff-bristles can tame this hay.
With little effort, of winding around
It becomes a sculpture, an erotic crown
Layers and layers of color with no name
Iím beginning to ponder this head of fame
As I continue to gaze on that crowning gleam
Iím afraid it will remain a distant dream
With regrets and of this I will despair
That I never got to touch, that great Markís hair.