You said he looked a bit like Michael Eavis,
I said that he was more like Whispering Bob.
He’s older than we are, you said, but fitter–
those calves and thighs would make Ronaldo sob.
He flew by two days later (he looked hairier)
on a bike that seemed to have no brakes.
He looks like Kenny Rogers now, I muttered.
No, more Karl Marx, you said, or Billy Shakes.
Then nothing for two weeks, until we glimpsed him
roller-skating–beard all white cascades.
Good God, I said, I think that’s Rip Van Winkle!
No, ZZ Top, you said, without the shades.
I said, Could exercise make someone’s hair grow?
A beard like that’s a safety risk, you said.
I said, We should try early morning jogging.
You said, Jog if you like–I’ll stay in bed.
I said, A full beard’s really quite attractive –
perhaps it’s time for you to give up shaving.
You said, I won’t start growing facial hair
to satisfy your strange perverted craving.
And I confess, it’s getting pretty weird –
each day the jogger’s beard grows wilder, sillier.
And now I’m having dreams of Santa Claus
and counselling for my pogonophilia.