THE BEARD

When summer comes I change my face,

To no plastic surgeon due.

I simply let my whiskers grow,

And soon I’m born anew.

In just a week it flourishes.

If all it took were looks,

You’d think I were a scholar,

A man immersed in books.

In a month I’m Santa Claus,

My beard is long and white.

I nod and wave as I pass by

To every child’s delight.

Now I have a problem

With this growth upon my chin.

I have to trim it every day,

And it itches me like sin.

In fall I hack it off relieved

To once again be me.

When summer comes again next year …

Well …we’ll have to wait and see.