Hair

It's funny how we put so much into it,

 Building a tower of hairspray and gell,

Letting it cascade down our shoulders like the venerated Nile,

Shining it with oil like we're polishing a golden calf.

But it's dead, deader than Elvis,

(Depending on who you talk to)

Deader than Jesus was

(though we've never found the body)

Deader than C.S. Lewis,

(though we gossip about him like an old friend.)

In fact, when the barber snips it off,

We wouldn't feel it any differently

Than if he used a claymore or a pair of scissors.

We know it's just dead skin,

Deader than Elvis,

But we don't believe it.