Jonathon Briggs
Had nary a care
Until he saw something
That wasn’t there
In its place was a clearing
On the top of his head
That was once occupied
By his long hair instead
His usual smile
Turned into a pout
Because bunches of hair
Were falling out
He gathered them daily
To his wife he’d report ‘em
While giving each follicle
A thorough post-mortem
Alas it was fruitless
The exit sped faster
Despite rubbing and brushing
And mudpacks of plaster
His friends said “Don’t worry”
“Though your hair’s now in pieces”
“You’ve got a great forehead”
“That each day increases”
“And though you may be”
“Very bare at the dome”
“You never will ever”
“Have need for a comb”
So Jonathon quit counting
The hairs in his drain
But he still keeps quite busy
There’s so much to Rogaine
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