Poem 298 – The Shaving Mirror

There’s a face in the mirror,
Grizzled and worn,
Stubble waiting to be shorn,
Grey and disgusting,
So on with the foam,
Now coated in white,
The face of a statue dripping in shite.
Run the razor beneath the hot water
A cloud of steam goes high.
Oh face I must shave, goodbye.


Dear readers,

In my first vaguely comic poem for a while, I recount a permanent difficulty while shaving one’s own face – that hot water renders all mirrors useless.

Kind regards,

The Hapless Neo-Romantic


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