Elegy on the massacre of my moustache

Male visitors to this blog would empathise more closely with this. Shaving the upper lip for the first time is always an ordeal. And when it has been an important feature on your face, the repurcussions can be devastating. As I found out many many years ago!

It was Monday morn
When I was shorn
In a hurried shaving session
Of my manly possession
And a whiskerless Sanjeev Bhargava was born.

In the form of a fatal slip,
Tragedy struck my upper lip
And when my eyes caught mine in the mirror
With as expression of dismay and terror
My heart went down for an abdominal trip.

There was this goon
With a hairless moon
Who peers from the mirror and inspects
My face for the very emblem of my sex
But finds no hair to trim and prune.

Aghast and petrified I stood
As a court martialled soldier would.
But looking at the brighter side I thought
I can live without a mush why not
And so decided it was gone for good.

Now people did stare
At the massacred hair.
As they looked and for long after
They indulgently burst into foolish laughter
At the simple fact that my face seemed bare.

Some smart alec trying to be witty
Asked me not to indulge in self-pity.
With a face shaven clean and spic and span
I had transformed myself into a man
Who was petite, demure and extremely pretty.

Defeated dejected and at a loss
Beaten ridiculed angry and cross
Eating humble pie with humble sauce
Letting public opinion be the boss
I decided again to grow the moss.