My goatee didn’t make
Me a buccaneer or Brad Pitt
With his unruffled patch of sylvian forest
It didn’t make me an artist
By the name of Van Dyke
Nor did it give me the ranks of a muskateer
Although I’m a little fol in my joie-de-vivre
It did not give me a long face
Just made me feel a tiny bit different
With a babyface full of locks
Masking the witty chin and the weak upper lip
After all, I’m just a babyfaced man
Who wants to feel like a mutton chop
Insatiable for a goddess next-door
With compulsively amorous lips
And a carnivore tongue
And oo la la – french all over.


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