There is this woman—I’d like to get next to her–
I’ll refer to her vaguely as Lady Non Sequitur.
For when’er by rationality I’m feeling deranged
She brings joy to me by saying something . . . strange.
She cuts my hair and does it like a boss.
For non-sensical words, she’s never at a loss.
I like her a lot ‘cause she keeps conversation flowing
and the bright light of reason from her noggin ain’t glowing.
Once she asked me what paper I was reading–
it just so happened it was The New York Times.
She said she didn’t like it ‘cause it didn’t have coupons–
with tippers like me, you have to watch your dimes.
Another time she wondered if I was going away.
I said “Why do you ask?” as I was confused.
She said another guy’d come in that day,
he was taking vacation, so maybe I was too.
No, there’s nothing so pleasing as benighted innocence,
you don’t need a Descartes in every season.
Or even, for that matter, an Immanuel Kant,
and his long-winded tome, The Critique of Pure Reason.
At least not when sitting in a stylist’s chair;
then you’re looking to give your mind a rest.
When there, you’re more worried about the state of your hair
and not what’s contained inside of your head.
So you don’t mind at all, when she finishes up,
and shows you the rear with the help of her mirror,
and asks if the length is all right with you, and
you think: If not, you can’t put any back.
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