It’s honed sharp, time to winnow hirsute darling. . .
as if your smile’s masked by fronds of palm.
In truth, I think you look like a frizzy boy,
nor can I see your high cheekbones.

Wow, so wrong, hairy Ann, more beard than fleecy Dan.
So hack like guys that facial nap and watch it fall from pan.

Hell, you’re so like guys on a facial view:
those restless roots are sprouting in a clutch.
Look like a player for the Angels
whose smoother of face more than four months, untouched.

Wow, so wrong, hairy Ann, more fleeced than bearded Dan.
So hack like guys that facial nap and watch it fall from pan.

The fledge started when you were young. . .
creeping shadow, evening dark.
And by age thirteen you already knew a Schick—
the kids “tee-heeing,” calling you “Mark.”

Whoa! So wrong, hairy Ann, more fleece than sheepish Dan.
So hack like guys that facial nap and watch it fall from pan.

Into forest from follicles, time to plow—
yes, the prospect makes you moan.
But brandish to that hedge the shiny double-edge. . .
like grass that’s overgrown, it must be mown.

Zounds! So wrong, hairy Ann, more fleece than unsheared ram.
So hack like guys that facial nap and watch it fall from pan.

No need to have a hidden mug—
be bold; get a new razor blade.
I know that shaving will make you furious
But you have only genes to blame.

Whoa! So wrong, hairy Ann, more beard than ZZ man.
So hack like guys that facial nap and watch it fall from pan.

Yes, you really are such a pretty one,
if you’ll just tame—nay, raze—monstrous mien mane.
Otherwise, you look like a mountain guy,
and folks joke that your song’s “Fleece Trained.”

Whoa! So wrong, hairy Ann, more beard than the Wolfman.
So hack like guys that facial nap and watch it fall from pan.