‘Tis that time of year, most women dread,
of a man’s scraggly beard, and visions of Antlers in his head.
He disappears each year, to a destination few women dare go,
to place in the woods, even the Government wouldn’t know.
He is covered down to his toes, not an inch of him is bare,
with patterns of camouflage, everywhere except in his hair.
He is adorned with a bow, arrows in his quiver too,
A rifle slung to his back, to do what real hunters do.
His beard is simplistic, and not fairly majestic,
his visage is rustic, and utterly not domestic.
He is a man, of vision yet sometimes defiant.
He is a man of calculation, and always reliant.
He is a gentleman amongst men, no frills or lace,
with masculine features, and a beard for a face.
He quietly settles in a stand that he has made,
when out of the bushes a buck he would surely take.
His eye to his scope and sweat on his brow,
he took sight and aimed, he knew what to do now.
With the sun on his back, and the animal in plain sight,
he took his shot, before the animal gave fright.
He took down his kill without even a flinch,
He knew that this tag would be bagged in a cinch.
Now the rack is adorned in his man-cave with care,
With rifles all around, and displayed everywhere.
With a fire in the mantle, and a glow all around,
He sits in his chair, quietly with his hound.
Tis a story of men doing what manly men do,
not for the faintest of hearts, but the masculine few.
Merry Beard-mas to all, and all a Bearded night.
from all of us at The Beard Struggle, Happy Holidays