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Facial Hair



My mother true 

Would not like you

With hair upon the face,

The lip, it’s feared,

Or full blown beard,

For hair, ’twas not the place.


Not ONLY on

The lip upon

My father or a son,

She’d disapprove

“You must, it, move”

On almost anyone.


When dating dad

He had a fad

To grow a moustache dark

Mum said a  “NO”….

“It has to go”

So he would play ‘a lark.’


The ‘forties, ’twas

Travelling by bus

When meeting for a date,

She arrived first,

But nearly cursed

Whene’er she spied her mate.


His lip was dark

(He’d played a lark)

Mum thought it still was hair

As he drew near

It was so clear

No moustache growing there


“Tis true, he’d shaved

But misbehaved

And drew a large black mark

On upper lip

Just as a quip,

He’d done it for a lark.


Now man’ years past

Her son, - the last,

Did grow a moustache dark,

Still mum said “NO…….

It has to go”

The son, he didn’t hark.


Took ’nother way

A game did play

The full beard, grow, did he,

“Don’t like the beard”

{But then son cheered,}

“Moustache, it was okay”







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