The whiskers on my chinny-chin-chin
Just taunt me at ev’ry turn –
I’ve practiced shaving since I was a lad,
But I don’t think I’ll ever learn.
So I dread to see the morning mug,
Yet never dare adjourn –
My beards are patchy, rough affairs
That raise looks of concern.
I use my blades too long, I know,
My moneysworth to earn.
Yet new ones only last a week
Before they start to burn.
And so I tug and scrape and mow
In a job I’d gladly spurn,
As I pull my jowls and wattles taut
With a stretch and crane and gurn.
I’ve tried electrics shavers,
Yet for all their motors churn,
My fingers raise striations still
On a chin like a windmill’s quern.
And that was with the hair of youth,
As soft as a newborn fern –
But now it shoots out gnarly thorns,
So straggly, grey, and stern.
Maybe one day, razors with lasers
Will give me the finish I yearn !
Till then, for all the years and swipes,
The stubble will always return.
The title is my name for blood spots on shaving cream.