Archibald Pate is a marvelous sight. For he hasn't a hair on his head.
His dome is a slick and shiny and bright, as a finely polished meteorite.
His follicles, dead as a cold winter night.
But Archibald Pate always said that hair is a curse, a peril, a plight.
An effort to groom, a bother, a blight, a shock of dead fiber to tangle at night.
When you're otherwise safe in your bed.
But a man with a good head of glare, is a good deal closer to paradise.
Baldness is beautiful, baldness is nice.
No combing, no shedding, no dandriuff, no lice.
No shampoo, or barbers to bear.
Baldness is freedom, to put it concisely.
"Baldness,' he is quick to declare, "Is nature's own cure for hair"