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in Ode to the Stache (19 photos)

by jeffwalls


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“Oh, glorious hairs, sprouting from face! With warmth and a style no razor could erase, Hairs grow like weeds, sturdy lip prongs, Which are worshipped and are subjects of songs, It sits as a comrade, a furry, lippy friend, That you can twist, style, twirl, whorl, and bend, You are the captain, and it your first mate, With it you have a bond to which no other bodily hair—can relate, You might prefer the Belvedere, or perhaps the Dali, You may sport yours like Frank Zappa and grow a goatee, It can be a handlebar, or you can let it droop, One end can be a basketball, the other end a hoop, You can look like Einstein and look like Ringo too, You could grow it very long until you need ‘stache shampoo, It may be a pencil one, or a Fu Manchu, A moustache is a moustache, and any one will do, Some look pretty menacing, some look kind of cute, Some make you look professional, some just like a brute, You can wear it with a beard, goatee, or mutton chops, It looks right on cowboys, Hitler, and even cops, This is a little ode about a little droop, A single curve of hair that can sop up all the soup, Some are rather sparse; some look worth a lot of cash, But never forget the power and coolness of the ‘stache”



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