A Mug’s Game
No matter how new the blade,
And no matter how thick the foam –
No matter how many passes made,
My stubble sits right at home.
The razor burn is fiery,
As striation still sing out –
Yet my chin is grey and wiry,
With the crevices in-sprout.
My whiskers are a warning
That I’m not so young and steady –
It’s first thing in the morning,
Yet it’s five o’clock already.
Rhyming Couplets 