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SHAY

(Tuesday, April 2, 1996, 12:09 a.m.)

Shay rolled his bright eye,

Tied with duct tape so strong.

"What now?  What's wrong?

I see nothing wrong with hair this long."

"Long of no matter," I say,

"'Tis awry with grease

And I'll not rest

'Til each hair's in piece."

"Oh really," he laughed,

"The tape's not necessary.

You see, of this type 'duct'

I've always been wary."

"Be quiet, sit still,

You bonny young lad.

This bondage of duct's

Not really that bad.

Relax with shut-eye and

Try hard to smile

While I give this small

Comb a difficult trial."

"Don't believe that comb

Will do it," he winced.

"Not unless first

I am with turpentine rinsed."

"Don't be a dork!" laughed

I, with evillish grin.

"Whether this hurts you

Or not, I'll end with a win.

If I'm done without consequence,

Then you'll look fine,

But if you die in the process,

The vic'try's still mine!"

"You're sick!" he shrieked, while

I wickedly cackled.

"While I'm under this tape,

You'll have my zits spackled!"

"Don't get me started,"

I gasped, my eyes wide.

"A pus-crater'd face I cannot abide.

However, your complexion

Seems beauifully clear;

No spackling now

Of which you'll worry, my dear."

"Just finish this now,"

He groaned, and he sighed.

"No Great Trib for me, for

I'm already tried!"

So over his head

My comb, it did whirl

You never did see a more

Excited weird girl.

It was yanked through his

Hair of all texture and weave

And I finally finished

With the mightiest heave.

It was done!  I was finished!

What a work of fine art!

And I showed him a mirror

To eye his new part.

Impressed, aye, he was;

His eyes on me shone,

But he worried, for my face

A new expression did don.

"Untape me now," requested he,

And started to squirm

And frowned, for my tapings

Were undoubtedly firm.

"Free me!" he begged,

With stylish new hair,

But I shrugged and I smiled, and I

Just left him there.