In a chair at the barber's, my eyes go wide
reading on the counter the glass jar just spied.
Plain white print spells out: Barbicide.
Below that, "Disinfectant, Fungicide & Virucide."
Inside, Jolly-Rancher-blue juice looks undignified,
though no doubt strong stuff, I must confide.
While my hygiene habits constitute no guide,
can't help pondering with a hit to my pride
what's crawled through my hair, then died.