My locks of curls

are a glamorous mountain

of blown out dandelions.

 

“This is all my hair.

No,

I am not lying.”

 

My locks of curls,

they fall from left to right.

Their delightful poise

full of African American stride.

 

My locks of curls

are fluffy marshmallows,

sweet smelling

and bouncy.

 

“Look and

do not touch please.”

 

My locks of curls,

strong, brown, and long,

Diana Ross’ family

some say I belong.

 

Although, without a lyric on my

lip, or a pitch to match,

my locks of curls

make eyes attract.

 

Sure, these curls

get trapped in a door,

a window,

or all up in someone’s personal space

sometimes.

 

“Oops, sorry.”

 

Yet, still

many desire

my curly locks

of galore,

lovely, lovely, lovely, glamorous,

my curly locks,

I adore.