Mushroom tracks

I went for a walk today, and happened upon a dozen parasols. They’re delicious, beautiful, and made me think. The perfect mushroom.

 

Imagine a field,

At night when you don’t see,

Unconcealed,

The mushrooms break free.

The moss shakes slightly,

Moved by the cap,

Shoved aside quite politely,

Makes way for the curious chap.

It will not stop,

They will always keep pushing,

While you sleep, shop,

Very slowly, never ambushing.

The only signs

You ever might see,

Upturned moss on the sidelines,

Innocuous cap, standing carefree.

When you walk,

Do you look at what’s around?

Might come as a shock,

There’s more to be found.

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Shampoo Folk

Don’t believe the lies of the Shampoo Folk,

Not for one second, not even as a joke.

They will tell you “Your hair is greasy.”

It’s a conspiracy invented by Medici.

Your hair won’t get greasy no matter what you do,

It’s just a cultural illusion on you.

They say “no tears” only to deceive,

You will misread and want to believe,

When the tears come and you get mad,

“Tear, as in ‘rip’, if we may add.”

Smiling smugly with their sudsy, sick smiles,

Their response when taken to trials.

The lies of the shampoo folk are many,

Aimed at finding every single penny.

You can break free if you are lucky,

Don’t shampoo, it might feel yucky,

In three weeks your hair compensates,

You can go back to school or on dates.

Never again face the lies of shampoo,

But only if Lady Luck is favoring you.