The smell is oau’de toilet
It isn’t excretory, but lovely in its style

Sign my classification on the waiting book
And I am led to the dead black cow skin by a fake tanned broad

She wraps me in a funeral colored cloth to prevent the trimmings of dead skin cells from irritating my skin

She pulls out a lawn trimmer from a vial filled with blue liquid
She proceeds to trim back the unruly hedges that someone called side burns

Old women sit in the back with mags and astronaught helmets covering half of their head and all of their hair
Yak, Blah, Twitter, Cackle and vomit unnecessary information that has suspect pasts

My hair slave smacks her gum as if this were a hobby and chewing was her day job