Odd, that you go ginger,
when really all I ask,
is that you grow quite steady,
in a colour that does match.
My hair is pretty dark,
on head, on leg, on arm.
Surely something similar,
on my chin would do no harm?
But no. You go against me,
you deny a man his dream.
You grow bright bloody red,
and make small children scream.
"Mum," they say, all teared up,
"That man looks like a freak!"
"Shush!" the mother tells them,
"Else he might come over and speak!"
I don't though, for all the shame,
I sulk away still sobbing,
My glowing beacon of oddness,
On my face still blinding, throbbing.
