Whiskers

He does it every morning, and sometimes twice a day,
I’d rather stand and look at him than go outside and play;
He stands before the mirror and pushes out his chin,
Then he gives a sort of sigh and plugs the razor in.
It’s rather like our Hoover, but not as big as that;
And then of course, it sweeps his face and not the bedroom mat.
I know why he does it too; I’ll tell you, so you”ll know:
Because, each night, while he’s in bed, his whiskers start to grow;
He has to put a stop to them or else they’d grow all day –
He’s end up with a ten-foot beard and then Mum would run away!
Now me, I’d like a ten-foot beard – I’ve tried to make one grow;
I’ve rubbed my chin with margarine – but did I get one? No!
Mum says she thinks I never will; at least, she hopes I won’t;
And when I asked her why, she said that little girls just don’t.
It isn’t fair, and anyway, there’s something I don’t know,
I suppose I could ask Daddy; he might not like it though.
I’ve wondered and I’ve wondered, as I’ve watched him shave his chin:
Does it pull his whiskers out? Or does it push them in?

Susan Chafer
From: The Best Primary Poetry Anthology – Ever! Lesley Pyott (1983)