I'm fourteen and my hair are grey.
I won't do a thing to them, come what may.
What difference does it make to you?
People, it's nothing but a white strand or two.
'Tis a sign of wisdom- Look! I am a sage.
Such knowledge is scarce in this age.

She expected me to sweep them with coal,
I won't do a thing- they are part of my soul.
He wanted me to paint 'em black.
I'll sweep them dark, but will they come back?
But they're made of silver- aren't they?
And so proud am I that they came my way.

It is a dead protein in a different hue,
And they're adding to the queue.
Hold your shampoos, serums and stuff!
They make my hair go frizzy and rough.
Why do you bother, folks? They're mine!
I want the grey- they look so fine.

If you seem to mind,
A solution I'll find.
A bunch of feathers? A hat?
Mention anything and I'll get that.
I'm fourteen and my hair are grey.
I won't do a thing, come what may.