Stranded

What's hair doing there,

Where it doesn't belong?

Who ever could have guessed 

That adorned upon my breast — 

Appearing only on the left —

Is one strand much darker than any other?

It is also textured unlike the rest.

There is also scruff upon my neck —

If left unchecked —

So why must my maw remain uncovered?

Ah, wouldn't it be nice to boast

A moustache above my lip,

Or, indeed, some whiskers on my chin?

Perhaps there I'd sport a beard,

But the hair still grows too thin:

Condemned to a neckbeard that I must erase

And that one weird pube

Which grows upon my tit.

All the coarse-faced ones to whom I relate

And yet my skin is barren —

Except, of course, for the places in which

I'd much rather be hairless.