Hair

Your passion shows you need me, Sir
But birthdays are not yours
Some of us think we can live with
Out the one you just force

Is my cut hair that taut to you
That you forget you don't
Own in this place anything that
Is clearly not a fault?

You owe it to the skies as well
But know that none is much
As useful as your hand to mine
But know that it's not such

Just stare at me, my frame owns none
That impedes your tenure
As settler of a life you should
Now be ready to cure