Sunday, March 03, 2013

Ode to the 'Stache

Ode to the 'Stache

Originally published on

Oh, glorious hairs, sprouting from face!

With warmth and a style no razor could erase,

 Hairs grow like weeds, sturdy lip prongs,

Which are worshipped and are subjects of songs,

It sits as a comrade, a furry, lippy friend,

That you can twist, style, twirl, whorl, and bend,

You are the captain, and it your first mate,

With it you have a bond to which no other bodily hair—can relate,

You might prefer the Belvedere, or perhaps the Dali,

You may sport yours like Frank Zappa and grow a goatee,

It can be a handlebar, or you can let it droop,

One end can be a basketball, the other end a hoop,

You can look like Einstein and look like Ringo too,

You could grow it very long until you need ‘stache shampoo,

It may be a pencil one, or a Fu Manchu,

A moustache is a moustache, and any one will do,

Some look pretty menacing, some look kind of cute,

Some make you look professional, some just like a brute,

You can wear it with a beard, goatee, or mutton chops,

It looks right on cowboys, Hitler, and even cops,

This is a little ode about a little droop,

A single curve of hair that can sop up all the soup,

Some are rather sparse; some look worth a lot of cash,

But never forget the power and coolness of the ‘stache

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