Every Time I Look in the Mirror

On the face of a man, whiskers grow,
Along the maddening familiar curves
of a face seemingly never shorn

Though it had been shaved just
a few moons ago.

But whiskers grow, whiskers grown
on the face of a man, growing
madder with each hair anew

How could her have been the one chosen
to face alone such facetious curses?

Whiskers grown, whiskers grown,
A man defeated asks god what’s
the point, god laughs and sings
along:

Whiskers grow, whiskers grow.

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