The Mustachioed Man

By Tim Nye

Oh what a sight

Reflecting before me

Sagging grey pallid skin

Through sore eyes I see

My hair now thinning

Devoid of all sheen

White rounded its crown

Little hope can I glean

Improvements are needed

Of this there’s no doubt

Relentlessly advancing

Time will ne’er about

So what are my choices

I ponder a while

To make me seem younger

Have panache and style

When all hope is fading

My toothbrush I spy

The bristles inspire me

Through memories eye

Yes, back in the days

When bikes were my thing

Dirty black leathers

And Elvis was king

So bushy and proud

It traversed ‘cross my face

With swooping handlebars

I have made my case

A moustachioed man

Yes, that’s what I’ll be

Then await the return

Of the man that was me

Now should it be thin

Yes, Gable looked cool

But it might looked stunted

And I’d look a fool

Maybe long and twirly

That should shed the years

A swashbuckling hero

Like the 3 musketeers

Perhaps short and stubby

That’s one way to go

…Hitler, Mugabe..

…I really don’t think so

Maybe I’ll wait and

Heed nothing of fears

Just go with the flow

And see what appears

One things for certain

I must do all that I can

To see the return

Of the moustachioed man

(More about Tim)

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