A Poem About Wigs You’ll Want Toupee Your Respects To

A Poem About Wigs You’ll Want Toupee Your Respects To

Wigs Everywhere

 The brown squirrel, coiled & clinging
 to the guardrail of my balcony, 
 is a wig. 

 I stepped out of the shower to dry my feet
 on a damp wig. 

 You can fold a wig in a certain way
 that it becomes a cup from which you can swig

 water or juice or wigskey, 
 which is whiskey distilled
 from fermented wigs. 

 I met Dolly Parton & she was all wig. 

 Kristen Wiig is a wig. 
 So was Ludwig van Beethoven. 

 In Britain, there used to be two political parties
 —the Whigs & the Wigs. 
 
 There are wigs that are mops
 & wigs that seduce cops. 

 In some countries, it is illegal for wigs
 to marry other wigs. 
 
 Have you ever slept in a wig? It’s itchy. 
 
 The best wigs in life are free, 
 but the second-best cost
 extraordinary amounts of money. 
 
 Somewhere in Detroit, you can trade
 20 small wigs for one giant wig
 
 & the award for Best Wig Ever goes to 
 Medusa. I love how she’d rather lose her head
 than part with it

 & how, even without a heart, 
 the head maintains its awful power.