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
Whiskers grow, whiskers grow.