I admit to being a STACHIST

There is no explanation as to where my fascination came for the stash but for my love I am not abashed. So here it is, in all its glory a quick hairy poem, or mustache story…



How I wish I could grow a mustache,
so that people could see me as cool.
With a fashionable style, a furry smile,
the ladies would drown in their drool.

Oh I wish I could grow a mustache,
so that people could think me a man.
I would work on a farm, have a rugged charm,
and probably drive a white van.

I wish I could form a mustache,
maybe people would think I was snappy.
I would keep it in trim, I would go to the gym,
with some hair on my lip, I’d be happy.

How I long, and long, for a mustache,
so people could think I was smart.
I would hypothesise, that a mustache is wise,
and then show my results, in a chart.

I wish I could own a mustache,
so that people could think me their friend.
With a jolly old tash, I would sure be a smash,
and a man on which you could depend.

But alas, I cannot grow a mustache,
my face is unfavourably bare.
And now I have disclosed, that my lip is exposed,
‘til I can, a fake mustache, I wear.
-Jason Longwell