Daniel Sennis

The Ballad of Grizzly Gus

Not long ago when you looked at me
no hair on my comely face would you see.
But then I went on a ten day vacation
and to shave my face I had no motivation.
Because I didn’t have anywhere important to go
on my listless days, my hair did grow.
With little fanfare, fight or fuss
from Smooth Sam I turned into Grizzly Gus.

In other words:
My mug turned into a rug.
My mien was no longer pristine.
My visage became rather vicious.
Where once was bare, there did appear
on chin and cheeks, hazelnut hair.

Now in the fraternity of the facially fuzzy,
the epitome of masculinity suddenly was me.
Like Rusell Crowe, the Gladiator,
I was now a hirsute intimidator.
Thanks to my new masculine mask,
I seemed ready for any Herculean task.

The beard infused me with absolute power:
I could now make the toughest of all men cower.
I could fight a dozen men with a single hand.
I could hunt for my dinner and till the land.
I could fix any car and grill any steak.
Repairs needed at home, I could easily make.

I was primitive, an animal, wild and free
The Call of the Wild ran up my cell phone fee.
I roamed the land wrestling bears and snakes.
I caught two-hundred pound catfish
with my hands in lakes.
I swam to Europe, then back-stroked back.
I made a shark rue its shark attack.

But then one day something occurred to me—
My beard was actually rather itchy.
Not to mention, in the warming weather, quite sweaty. 
So I returned to civilization; CVS to be exact.
I bought a razor and my face I attacked.
The hair went flying this way and that—
It looked like someone was murdering a cat.
In three hours time, I had made it at last:
My gnomish days had finally passed.
I was now back to where I had started.
Ulysses S. Grant had deftly departed.

Without my beard, my powers have gone—
they were stripped away when I mowed that lawn.
I cannot play football to save my life.
As for matters of grilling, I defer to my wife.
When danger is near, I run in fear.
I now prefer Pina Coladas to beer.
But I will always have memories of the time.
When chindolence resulted in the world being mine.

No comments:

Post a Comment

The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!