A part of Joe Rossi cut away, never to return.
A longing for magnetic life, it can no longer earn.
It was cut unprofessionally, by she no longer there,
Who was to drunk, to boast too loud about how, she could cut hair.
We passed it by so many times, as life will do to us.
Never asking how it was, or kicking up a fuss.
Dead skin amongst disjointed words, on the doorway of food.
It brightened up the house decor, it empathized the mood.
And while in death it hung there unafraid, upon the acrylic white,
Many toasts were made nearby, to its host’s inevitable life.
With part of him already dead, and not too far away,
We toasted to a lasting life, where he not stir or fray.
And though in life, he seldom did appear inside the kitchen cage.
And wine and spirit rarely did rouse his quite rage.
In death he hung there long and proud, as many men should be.
For though stuck under a magnet, a part of him was free.
Yesterday, a drunken stopper, for which he did attend,
Disrupted and put his peace at an untimely end.
And though still living, I will mourn, for the part of him that dead,
That little peace of Rossi, plucked from Rossi's head.
Since then, what man, has Joe become...he is making 40k
But still I wish for long forgotten days when his brown hair would sway.
Either upon his living head, or dead though it may be.
I always wish, Joe Rossi could be in life as free.
To just hang in the kitchen with friends as men so often do.
To feel a lot more brown-on-white, and a little less blue.
So Dennis please discard this "trash" with most uprearing care,
For many men store their whole lives, in their dead chunks of hair
And PS (And Rossi I've been in your head, and as full as it may be, I often find the rooms in there are not that cluttery).