To shave, or not to shave? That is Noshavember's question...
Whether 'tis nobler in the cold to buffer
With brittle whiskers the winter's cold
Or to take blades against a beard and mustache
And by much scraping, trim them. To shave, to sweep --
No more -- and like a sheep this cold to fend
The cold's ache planned by frigid natural shocks
That earth is heir to. 'Tis a consternation
I surely wouldn't miss. To fly, to flee --
To flee -- from nasty cuts; ah! There's the band-aid.
Yet then to flee from cold - what whiskers come!
Though we have scuttled half the morning's toil
We must take pause. There’s the respect
That makes a mockery of bearded life.
For who would bear the quips and jokes of time,
Th’oppressive throng, the young men, youthfully
Their pains for chin-based hairs, met with dismay,
Their insolence so offered, and their burns
A patient man of worthy age must take
When he himself might his mustache make
In a few mornings. Who would model theirs
In front…yet fret under those jealous eyes
But that the dread of freezing unto death
In open, windy country, where the mourn
Of travelers is heard, through cold distilled,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to southern countries we know not of?
Thus, coldness does make hairiness the call
And thus the native hairs of resolution
Are prickly o’er the pale skin of my face
This enterprise of great growth per moment
Takes all regard for currents turning frigid
And loses them -- with attraction – Yet we’re now
The warmer – winter, on the horizons
Be ne’er its cold remembered.
That makes a mockery of bearded life.
For who would bear the quips and jokes of time,
Th’oppressive throng, the young men, youthfully
Their pains for chin-based hairs, met with dismay,
Their insolence so offered, and their burns
A patient man of worthy age must take
When he himself might his mustache make
In a few mornings. Who would model theirs
In front…yet fret under those jealous eyes
But that the dread of freezing unto death
In open, windy country, where the mourn
Of travelers is heard, through cold distilled,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to southern countries we know not of?
Thus, coldness does make hairiness the call
And thus the native hairs of resolution
Are prickly o’er the pale skin of my face
This enterprise of great growth per moment
Takes all regard for currents turning frigid
And loses them -- with attraction – Yet we’re now
The warmer – winter, on the horizons
Be ne’er its cold remembered.
