I saw a mighty manly mustache
High up on the mountain,
Majestic whiskers blowing free,
A flowing hairy fountain.
The one they said no man can claim,
Too wild to ever tame.
A 'stache like that without a face
Is such a cryin' shame.
So I saddled up my trusty horse,
I brought my mustache rope.
I rode to meet the mustache rogue,
To catch it was my hope.
I tracked it through the rain and cold,
I hardly slept or ate
'Til I found the beast out on the plain
Our meeting there was fate.
A lasso 'round its hairy haunch
And then the battle started,
Through mud and rocks and rough terrain
I held on valiant-hearted.
Those mustache muscles gave their all,
But I came out on top.
I'd caught that frisky facial hair,
That wily whisker mop.
So now you know the story
Of this trophy on my lip,
And why I'll never have a shave,
Or even just a clip.
My mustache may be 10 feet long,
A greasy tangled thing,
But I have to keep it wild and free -
The mighty mustache king.
-B.C. Byron
This is another poem idea from a kindergarten class I visited earlier this year. The request was actually “a person who’s afraid of mustaches”, but once I start writing a poem, it has the tendency to go in unexpected directions. This guy was definitely not scared as he conquered the great wild mustache, but I think my poem meets the spirit of the challenge. I originally started with writing about a scary mustache, which became Stachepunzel (super hard to rhyme with that), then I got stuck for 3 days, and then this poem finally happened. It’s tough to balance between pushing hard to finish something and letting the mind do its work naturally. In the end I just had to let this one flow wild and free, like the Mighty Mustache King of the mountain meadows.
Personally, I’ve never grown a mustache. I’m not sure if my lip has the skills required. I’ve almost grown a beard a few times, and I almost grew my hair long once. As the beard stubble hits that halfway point, it starts to drive me nutso. My neck itches and I feel a constant need to stroke my chin like a wisened scholar. My almost-long head of hair was actually shaping up to be pretty cool – ready for blowing-in-the-wind poses and epic guitar moves. Then I realized how hot and sweaty long hair is when I go running. I’ll leave the cool facial hair to the cowboy in my poem and the long locks to the mega hairy dude at work. No-shave November is definitely not for me, but I can respect a good ‘stache.
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