Burma Shave

 

To say,
I guess it’s not my place

 

I’ve old man whiskers
upon my face,

 

In fact,
I’ve hair most every place.

 

How is it
that as we grow old,

 

New hairs sprout
so brave and bold,

 

As if in youth
when first they came,

 

Peach fuzz
back then was their name,

 

Somehow that
no longer fits,

 

I see it now
as just the pits.

 

To age, it seems,
is quite the feat,

 With sprouting strands
we never greet.

From ears to nose,
and brows that flare,

A jungle grows
with stealthy care.

Once smooth as silk,
now bristle-bound,

Each follicle
a battleground.

We pluck and trim,
we shave and snip,

 Yet still they launch
another trip.

So here’s to fuzz,
both bold and sly,

That marks the years
as they go by.

Though grooming’s now
a daily chore,

We laugh
and sprout a few hairs more.