The Barber Pole

The barber pole goes round and round,
A relic of the past.
There aren’t many to be found,
A gem not meant to last.

Those jaunty stripes – red, white and blue
Would spiral out in front,
So if your haircut time was due
Then you could end your hunt.

But once you found your barber, you
Knew you would always go
To Lou, like Burt and Joel* would do
Or like my son, to Joe.

For females, poles did not apply.
We wouldn’t have intruded
Upon that lair, though who knows why
We women were excluded.

*my brothers