A jaggedy man of
forty years
Decided one day
he wanted a BEARD.
So down he sat
in his favourite chair
And willed his
face to grow some hair.
The time rolled
by tick tock tock tick
Yet nary a hair
upon his chin.
‘Absurd!’ he
thought, ‘A man like me,
Can’t grow a
BEARD before his tea!
I’ll go in
search of facial hair
A quest for
BEARD from anywhere!’
So off he set
through his front door
And saw what he
was looking for.
‘This,’ he
cried, ‘is the finest thing!
The lining from
my wheelie bin!’
So with some
tape and chewing gum
He stuck the plastic round his gums.
And proud as any
man could be
Set off walking
down the street.
Yet all he heard
was laughs and jeers
From those who
spied his plastic BEARD.
‘Take it off,
you vain old man!’
Came the cries
from those around.
And then a cat
leapt onto him
From the smell
of kippers in the bin.
Away he ran from
the town
Until the cries
were all but drowned.
Soon countryside
was all around
Where peace and
quiet did abound.
‘There must be
something here,’ he thought.
‘Something of
the beardy sort’.
So off he went
into the wood
In search of
something hairy good.
And soon he saw
upon the ground
A mass of hair
so very round.
He picked it up
and stretched it wide
And to his face
the mass applied.
Yet soon as it
was set in place
He felt an itch
upon his face.
A tickle here, a
prickle there
Life lived in
this facial hair!
A thousand fleas
jumped to life
And all at once
began to bite.
Then four small
feet all stuck out
Followed by a
snuffly snout
And suddenly he
realised
A hedgehog
stared into his eyes.
He threw the
beast down to the leaves
And let out one
almighty scream
And fast as both
his legs could scram
Away the
beardless wonder ran.
He scooped up
leaves and mossy lumps
And passing mice
and capsicum,
Some bark from
oaks and slippery toads
Something
squashed from off the road
But one of these
would adhere
Or give to him
the perfect BEARD
And soon the
night began to fall
And left him
with no hope at all.
Lost, so lost,
he blundered on
Through moonlight shafts, so woebegone,
Ne’er sight nor
sound, he was afeard,
Of anything to
make a BEARD.
For days and
nights he battled on
In search of
BEARD to settle on,
But everything
he touched or used
Left him bitten,
scratched or bruised.
Then finally, by
lucky streak,
He found himself
back in his street.
‘Oh, joy!’ he
cried, ‘I’m glad I’m safe!
Who cares about
my naked face?
What matters
now, where e’er I roam,
There really is
no place like home!’
He happened on
Mr Frode,
The postman who
walked up their road.
‘My!’ said
Postie, ‘What has passed?
You look as if
you need a bath!
Your clothes are
torn, you’re worse for wear
And look at ALL
THAT FACIAL HAIR!’
‘FACIAL HAIR!’
the poor man cheered.
‘Do you mean
I’ve grown A BEARD?’
‘Nay!’ said
Postie with a smile,
‘That beats A
BEARD by half a mile!’
‘Well, I’ll be
blowed!’ said BEARDY BLOKE,
‘Without me
trying I got my growth!’
And home he
trotted full of glee
To get himself a cup of tea.
