Moustache

I couldn’t help but comment
on that fiery facial fur,
not thinking my kind words
could be taken as a slur.

‘My father had a snot-mop
much the same as yours,’ I said.
‘An oily top lip doily,
that he dyed a deep fox red.

‘He used to wax his mouthbrow
every night and twirl the tips,
like you, until each point strayed
several inches from his lips.’

I’d barely finished speaking
than she slapped round the face,
and wailing like a banshee,
she upped and left the place.

I learned that day no woman,
young or old, appreciates
kind words about her facial hair
from men met on blind dates.