A New Style
P Pradip Chattopadhyay
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He moved it across but the comb slipped
Little he could do
A cruel hand had them all clipped
Leaving a strand or two!
He breathed a deep sigh
Mercilessly the times fly
Leaving him a knave
To have once boasted of his black wave!
It’s always destined by fate
For the bushy to turn to arid plate
To himself he gave a painful smile
Why not take it as a new style?
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