Of course, it was fashion y’see,
To have a beard as long as can be,
And Barnaby was a usual lad,
Who thought to himself, ‘I’ll do that.’
So he threw his blades, razors and things
Promptly into the bathroom bin!
Eager not to be a failure,
He binned all shaving paraphernalia.
All such things, now a cardinal sin,
As his ‘growing a beard’ phase was to begin.
His jels, smells, potions and things,
‘All belonged to his past,’ according to him.
After a day or two, he was in for a shock,
And was warned, through laughter, others might mock.
But adamant Barnaby said he’d not care,
That the joy of his beard, with the world he’d share!
Now Barnaby’s hair was silky and soft,
Rich and mysterious with jels held aloft.
Dark and lustrous, sexy and suave,
A sexier image… he thought he’d carve…
But the hair on his chin was different y’see,
You’d have to see it to truly believe,
Thick dark hair, lovely on his head,
Who’d ever guess his beard would grow red!
That’s what I said! His beard was red!
Not on his head, but his beard was red!
This wasn’t what one would expect,
Unless of course someone laid a hex!
Now Barnaby wasn’t the wimpy kind,
Nor the kind that comments would mind,
He wore his beard with a ‘dignant pride,
Even when it grew round to his behind!
But he’d admit, he would address,
The issue of his state of dress,
For those with red hair also know,
Not all colours in your closet go.
So he would mostly just wear green,
For that was the colour to be seen,
And still his beard, it grew and grew,
The length so long, he’d rival few.
It grew to his knees, then his feet,
It grew to the pavement and down the street.
It grew so long that none could afford
To challenge him to the book of re-cords.
T’was soon the longest in the world,
Some bits were straight and some were curled.
He’d roll it in a giant red ball,
And use a hair band to hold it all.
His fame, it grew throughout the land,
As the man with the beard, so red and grand.
The phrase, ‘Merlin’s beard’ was no more,
As ‘Barnaby’s beard’ was used more and more…
For who could miss the river of red,
As it flowed down the street in the wake of his head.
Which, ironically, grew round and bald,
As his chin sprouted cherry hair two-fold.
So next time you see a river of hair,
You know that Barnaby’s somewhere near.
Be careful, don’t step on his frizzy mass,
With no hair on his head, it’s all he has.
Gone were his lovely locs of black,
Only sometimes did he wish for it back.
Most of the time he’ll gladly tell friends,
That his ‘growing a beard’ phase would never, ever end.