My POME (I know it is a poem, I have a PhD, and somewhere in there I learned "poem".

This little poem was written while I was in high school, and my mother sent it to some magazine (I think it was either The Reader's Digest or The Saturday Evening Post. Wherever it was sent, they sent a check for -I think it was fifteen dollars, and published the poem which my mother had posted on the refrigerator until it disintegrated from old age. (I can relate to that)

Why upon the head must men impress
Their balms and unguents- other foolish finds?
The hair is not a sign of soul or heart,
Nor does the covered pate improve the mind.
The hair is but a parasite, which preys
Upon the blood of man, which could be spent.
Much better in a thousand other ways.
But find the man without, who does not wish
For cover on that bald and shiney spot.
And find the man who has, and yet has hope,
Whose hopes are not to have but to have not.

I beg your forgiveness.

Copyright C Richard B. Johnson 1951 or thereabouts.