Ode to a love-hairte relationship

Oh! What futile workers
Who toil to no avail
They hack-­‐cut-­‐shear the enemy                                                                                                 But sadly they will fail

A more persistent army you never saw                                                                                     Armed with many a sharp tool
But any but time that fights such a foe                                                                                           Will inexorably be made a fool

But halt! What turn of fate-­‐
Do I accept what I descry?
Such mortal enemies I’ve never found                                                                                            Yet this surmisal new evidence belies

For behold,
How the worker caresses
Nurtures the very pestilence she strives to eradicate

Like an epiphyte, it grows, takes over its host’s anterior                                                                 Yet the worker simply chops a little away
Never attacking in one fell swoop

In the one instance in which this was the case,                                                                             The host became interminably angry
As if the worker was ridding her of a major organ                                                                       Rather than sloughing off a ghastly growth

Alas! I shall revise
My predictions; they are flawed
The Dresser and the Hair                                                                                                           Must-­‐clearly-­‐have symbiotically coevolved.

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