Pate.

Alas, poor Yorick, fellow of jest

For joshing, no doubt was the best

Now for sure his skull is shiny

As mine old scalp, or baby heinie

I drive the car and mirror glance

To see one tailgate there perchance

And lo! My hairless head is seen

Within the glass of my machine

The mirror taunts my fuzzless pate

As hairless as a china plate

My father, his hairline did bequeath 

His will did list no hair beneath

My follicles failed, all tired, old

Before their time and left me cold

Now hats, beneath which I must hide

For warmth that nature won't provide

A collection of caps that grew in size

As hairline crept north from my eyes

The sand trap in the rear grew vast

Sahara size, I found, at last

So, cover up that scalp with cloth

To hide the skin that nature's sloth

Has left me high and dry and bare

With just a stray hair here and there

Alas! Poor hair! I knew you when

But now is now, and that was then

At least by one fear am not haunted

Could not grow man bun if I wanted.