Hey Murray... I've taken your sage advice
and grown some hair upon me fice
but no West London moustachy thing
nor stylish Hoxton phizgog bling
no sign of goatee nor trendy soul patch
just a rustic kind of bohemian thatch
Home to spiders and flies unending
soft landing place for larks descending
and nightingales when not in ode mode
consider the thing a very safe abode
deep in the thick of a piliferous hexameter
safe from the words of this poetic amateur
It filters my soup
holds gallons of beer
(to moisten my words for your charming young ear)
It has yellowed from sucking on Capstan Full Strengths
and hintily mintily reeks of...
cheap creme de menth's
And... after...after... all of these years
has finally given purpose to my melancholy flower ears
which now spend all of their time doing their best
to keep an old mans beard from slipping down onto his chest.
It may well be grey but you have to remember
I'll get plenty of work come the end of December.
But Murray, oh Murray, when that's all said and done
It itches like fuck.
