Just Lost My Barber.

OK. Herself cuts my hair. It's not a big job lately, and it's getting progressively smaller. But I got to thinking - what if the little personal things stopped. And this pome popps into the world.

I Just Lost My Barber

Just lost my barber
She walked out the door
She won't be making house calls
Round here anymore.

Yes, I just lost my barber,
My confessor, my friend,
Lost the touch of her hand
On my head,
Lost the smile of an Angel,
With the scissors of a Saint
But it's too late for me
To repent.

She can take all the chattels,
The CD's and the wine
It won't make a difference
You won't hear me whine.

I gave her the pink slip,
Handed back the keys
My pockets are empty,
I'm drained to the lees.

There's no kids to carve up,
No canine's or cats
Nothing to chain us
There'll be no last spat.

It's the touchy-feely, personal
Things that I'll miss,
The hand on my shoulder,
That good morning kiss.

She'd finish my hair,
and crack her best smile,
But I know now
There won't be a next time.