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Poem - Mr. Hot Comb

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  • pierre jefferson
    Mr. Hot Comb Dear Mr. Hot comb sitting on the stove` please tell me how many black heads have you drove, Sizzling and smoking like a old coffee pot, riding
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 1, 2007

                         Mr. Hot Comb

      Dear Mr. Hot comb
      sitting on the stove`
      please tell me
      how many black heads
      have you drove,

      Sizzling and smoking
      like a old coffee pot,
      riding through
      grease and sweat`
      with your iron burning hot,

      Frying black hair
      into a beautiful wave`
      freeing its owner from bondage`
      like the chains from a slave,

      Sometimes even your handle
      becomes to hot to bare`
      as your heat increases
      to relax the tension
      from black coiling hair,

      You can even smell hair cooking`
      as it gives up the ghost`
      some strands turning to silk
      others turning to toast,

      Some hair even catches on fire`
      as your temperature
      becomes raging hot`
      you can even hear the hair
      popping and snapping,
      like the lid on a boiling pot,

      You were created long ago
      to create style
      with heat and fire`
      torching a persons hair
      to their own textured desire,

      You were before chemicals
      when their was nothing else
      on the market`
      like owning a car
      with one drive way`
      with no where else to park it,

      My grandmother speaks of you
      till this very day`
      as she continues to use your services,
      with her coiling hair
      turning gray,

      For years black folks have known you!
      and you've been a loyal and true friend`
      even with a sea of chemicals available`
      I believe your friendship will never end,

      Sitting on the back stove
      waiting for another ride
      through a woolly nest`
      for the threat of black coiling hair
      can be a ever constant pest,

      Millions of black folks hair
      have known your orange heating glow`
      like a hair-burning Savior
      that straight hair lovers want to know,

      Always dependable
      when chemicals are not there`
      a short cut for Beauty to strut`
      saving the day
      from black coiling HAIR.

      For those who love black hair
      will never put you on a flame`
      choosing to keep their hair natural`
      choosing to keep it the same,

      You are either loved or hated
      for your heat born magic`
      some black folks call you a blessing`
      others call you tragic,

      Your viewed as a shame
      for burning out the heritage
      of black people hair`
      like a self-hating iron
      searing stench into the air,

      Yes Mr. Hot comb your History
      has a deep burning link
      into black peoples Soul,
      Emerging from the wombs of slavery`
      along with self body image untold,

      If it wasn’t for black hair your iron grill
      would never have been known,
      And the fried lie of straighten black hair`
      would have never been shown,

      For using your hot comb is
      like taking black hair
      on a ride through Hell,
      To reach the gates of Heaven
      with its hot burning smell,

      For if God wanted black hair
      to be straight?
      I'm sure He could have done it
      with out FIRE,
      As He waved His hands
      over coiling strands`
      to become as straight
      as He desired,

      For you still have a place
      within our Race`
      because many blacks still
      love your magic flame,
      If you were to be taken away
      what a price to pay`
      for those who love hot combed black hair`
      would never be the SAME.

      Pierre Andre, 2007 ©
      All Rights Reserved
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