Santa and Me - A Poem for the Bearded

I’ve worn a beard for forty years
And now it’s white as snow
I like to stroke it when I’m thinking
It catches dribbles when I’m drinking
Makes me look as old as Adam
Shave it off?
No thank you Madame

I think I’ll keep it twenty more
And while your chin drifts towards the floor
My beard will keep mine tight and toasty
Rounded, pointed, comfy mostly
Nature’s gift to men are whiskers
Wiry wonders of distinction
Say Jesus, Che and old Abe Lincoln

Rich enough to forest space
Ear to ear across my face
Below my nose and to my waist
If I chose to let it grow there
If I decide to never mow there
That’s the thing
It’s my own hair

Life is rich with rules and limits
They grow like fungus by the minute
What I should think and wear and eat
With whom I tumble twixt my sheets
The righteous have beset my home
They’ve breached my inner comfort zone
Please leave my facial hair alone

©Berlinbound 2014