The Tresses of Philip:

An Ode of Sorts

Like poppies gusting in a field

As kites flying on a single string

So PJ’s hair did flow

Until in a fit of madness

He did make it go

I was so sad

I loved it so

Locks of lovely learning

Where went his hair

I do not know

In trash or compost perhaps

The truth is hidden, too.

Oh, PJ’s hair:

We’ll never forget you.