Monday, 29 February 2016

By My Beard

By my beard and sandals shall you know me,
By the bushy nature of my facial hair
So natural, God given and gingery.
You see my whiskers and can never doubt me,
You know that I'm a man and not some tranny,
(Though you sense that if I met one I'd show pity.)
You see me and think God or Karl Marx?
And then we speak and you're left none the wiser.

In all things it's my Bishop who's adviser,
And he wants me to reach out, but not cause sparks,
To the followers of Islam in my parish
So I grew this bush of bright and burning copper,
Not to hide my light or His but to establish
A rapport with other men who preach
The word of God or Allah,
And I find that those who love death metal,
Can relate, and we discuss Valhalla.
And young hipsters, though they concentrate on looking cool,
Thinking mostly of themselves, still yet respect,
This most masculine example of our quirky English sect.

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