Mr. Whisker

Poem

Mr. Whisker shaved his head every single day

He could have led a life instead he shaved his days away

He’d never been unshaven seen apparently they say

It’d always been the one routine from which he could not stray

He had a clear obsession for smooth, un-stubbled skin

Kept his razor and his shaving foam in a special ‘Grooming Tin’

And when he woke, before he spoke, each day would begin

With a double check of his face and neck for any hairy sin

For stubble thick or thin

But a rogue hair on his chin

Saw his patience wearing thin

In a war he aimed to win...

For Mr. Whisker had a dimple, from which the hair emerged

From a pimple in the dimple, which just could not be purged

He badly tried until he died to put that hair to rest

But alas it seems his hair-free dreams never passed fol-licle test

So, Mr. Whisker missed a whisker every time he shaved

He’d go outside but couldn’t hide that whisker where it waved

One day he took a risk, and used a whisk, a-twirling as he raved

And with the whisk a compact disc! (But his face could not be saved)

A clear complexion was what he craved

Into his plight he caved

By his obsession he was enslaved!

He tried so hard (even shaved with lard!) a hairy war he waged

But that one rogue hair was always there as the pimple, reddened, raged

It laid him low and even though the barber he was paged

He didn’t know how to make it go, so his poor skin badly aged

From that hairy war he waged

In sanitary he was caged

But that hair was n’er be-swaged...

Yes Mr. Whisker missed a whisker all his shaving days

And now he’s gone we sing this song to remind us that he pays

The painful price of paradise sought in obsessive ways

As he can be found shaved in the ground with the rogue hair where he lays

Which ‘airily marks the place

Where his poor, raw, razored face

Was laid to end his craven phase

Where many pilgrims flock to gaze

At that roguish hair they go to stare…

At the whisker Mr. Whisker missed

Beware!

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