You’re pate’s clean—doesn’t have hair anymore.
Golden braids came to an end—
no more blowing in the wind.
Your pate’s clean; you get mean because you’re sore.

Many kinds of wigs you’ve tried,
because it fell, except on sides.
Your pate’s clean—doesn’t have hair; that the score.
Combover!

That’s what you’ve gotta do, ’cause mane has bid, “Adieu.”
Long time since it grew…a wraparound ’do.
What must ensue: new ’do for you.
Combover, combover, combover.

All the toupees that you tried
you simply could not abide.
You discovered: Rogaine’s faux, naught but lore.
To make sure it doesn’t fall, slick it down so it won’t crawl.
That way, behind you it won’t trawl.
Combover, combover, combover. Slick over!!