Begone, Mr. Beard!

Oh, beard of mine,
How I hate thee!
Vexed am I
For you intrude on my facial property
A scruffy nanometer of a nuisance at a time.
Scraggly, prickly, itchy, bristly.

As a lad, I once looked forward to your arrival,
Eager with anticipation
For each virgin hair.
But now I am grown, And I resent you
Imposing your will on me.
Making me spend
A quarter hour on your damned upkeep
Every day of my existence.
Lathering and shearing and cropping and mowing
Simply to temporarily rid myself of you.
I tend to you each a.m.
But come sundown
You cast your long shadow again,
Your whiskers taking possession of my chin
And trespassing onto my Adam’s apple.

Your comrade, my moustache,
I’ve befriended for life.
He is low on maintenance –
The occasional trim is all he asks for.
Whereas you, quite the ingrate,
Impoverish me and enrich Mr. Gillette
Every time you sprout.
Without my consent, too.

My missus was once your admirer,
Her caress on my cheek
A compliment to you.
Alas, she now prefers smooth to stubble.

So you see sir, I’ve hosted you for too long.
You’ve turned grey, you’ve overstayed, you’re unwanted.
And I wish I could banish you.
How fortunate art thou that cruelty is not me.
Instead, I simply forbid you to annex my face
To grow your fuzz
On that one day that even God took a rest.