There was an old man with a beard,
Who said: 'It is just as I feared!
Two owls and a hen,
Four larks and a wren
Have all built their nests in my beard.'
by Edward Lear from A Book of Nonsense (1846)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
But you have to understand, my beard is so nasty. I mean, it's the only beard in the history of Western civilization that makes Bob Dylan's beard look good.
quote by Bill Walton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who sat on a horse when he reared;
But they said, 'Never mind!
You will fall off behind,
You propitious Old Man with a beard!'
quote by by Edward Lear
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Toinette: Look you, Sir; a beard is something in itself; a beard is half the doctor.
line from The Imaginary Invalid, script by Moliere (1673)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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If the scissors are not used daily on the beard, it will not be long before the beard is, by its luxuriant growth, pretending to be the head.
quote by Hakim Jami
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The King’s Beard
There lived a king with beard so long
And scalp with scarcely hair!
He used a comb and sang a song
And groomed it with great care.
The king was proud of his long beard
That made him look so wise!
The queen, his wife knew he looked weird
And cursed him for its size!
The queen was therefore always sad;
His lip got hid by hair!
But one day, she was rather glad;
She told him, she couldn’t bear!
One day, the king slept while he read
A book that was folklore!
He had a dream asleep in bed;
“His beard had grown some more! ”
A burning candle-stick fell down
And lit the curtain-blind;
His beard had caught the fire sown!
The king was off his mind!
His nose smelt smoke: he woke in fright;
His beard was all aflame!
He shaved the stubs of hair by night
And took on him all blame!
The next day when the people saw
The king, they couldn’t believe
Their eyes and gazed at him with awe!
“Could eyes of dawn deceive? ”
poem by John Celes
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Santas Beard
Once a year my friend puts on a red suit
And hangs around with me and my wife
Now I cant help but feeling jealous each time she climbs on his knee
And she stands beneath the mistletoe screaming
For him to stand beneath the mistletoe screaming
Now I cant help but feeling jealous each time she climbs on his knee
Why must she climb on his knee?
I saw my baby wearing santas beard
She kissed him once and whispered in his ear
I saw my baby wearing santas beard
I wish he would go
Hes breaking up my home
She always had this twisted side to her*
But shed never drag my name around town
But lately shes been humming cheating songs
And I dont like that fat guy around
No, I dont like that fat guy around
I saw my baby wearing santas beard
She kissed him once and whispered in his ear
I saw my baby wearing santas beard
I wish he would go
Hes breaking up my home
I saw my baby wearing santas beard
Thrilling christmas, trembling fear
I saw my baby wearing santas beard
I wish he would go
Hes breaking up my home
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Better a Jew without a beard than a beard without a Jew.
There is always a period when a man with a beard shaves it off. This period does not last. He returns headlong to his beard.
quote by Jean Cocteau
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hermit
AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT
[Dedicated to George Cecil Jones]
At last an end of all I hoped and feared!
Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard.
Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred.
I doubt me soerly if the hermit heard.
To all God's questions never a word he said,
But simply shook his venerable head.
God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not,
Till people certified him insane.
But somehow all his fellow-luntaics
Began to imitate his silly ticks.
And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged
That one by one the patients were discharged.
God asked him by what right he interfered;
He only laughed and into his elfin beard.
When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer
He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire.
Our Hermi had dispensed with Sinai's thunder,
But on the other hand he made no blunder;
He knew ( no doubt) that any axiom
Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom.
But!-all who urged that hermit to confess
Caught the infection of his happiness.
I would it were my fate to dree his weird;
I think that I will grow an elfin beard.
poem by Aleister Crowley
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A Dan Yell
I WISH I’d never gone to board
In that house where I met
The touring lady from abroad,
Who mocks my nightmares yet.
I wish—I wish that she had saved
Her news of what she’d seen—
That Dan O’Connor is clean shaved
And parts his hair between.
The ladies down at Manly now—
And widows understood—
No more deplore their marriage vow
Or hopeless widowhood.
For Dan O’Connor is the same
As though he’d never been,
Since Daniel shaved that shave of shame,
And combed his hair between.
No more, Oh Bards, in Danyel tones
He’ll voice our several fames,
And nevermore he’ll mix our bones
As once he mixed our names.
Let Southern minstrels dree their weird
And lay their sad harps down,
For Dan O’Connor’s shorn of beard
And cracked across the crown.
The lobby and refreshment room
Are shorn of half their larks,
A newer ghost now haunts the gloom
That knew the ghost of Parkes:
The brightest joke Australia had
Is but a hopeless grunt—
It went for ever mad and bad
When Daniel shaved his front.
The fair Spotswhoshky weeps indeed—
Frogsleggi and Bung Lung—
With none to greet and none to speed
Them in their native tongue!
By Sucklar Key nor Golden Gate
No Dan is ever seen
Since Dan O’Connor wiped his “slate”
And notched his top between.
But—Dan O’Connor—(Lord knows best
The thing might be a sell)—
You surely will forgive a jest
From one who wished you well—
When we’ve forgot the face we feared
And Time has deadened pain,
Oh! Dan O’Connor, grow your beard,
And come to us again.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Hen and the Wren
The lovely, laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren.
'Good morning. It's nice to see you now and then.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'Thank you Mrs. Hen.
I haven't seen you for awhile and don't remember when.'
The laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren, 'If you recall,
The last time we were together was a bit before last fall.'
The wren smiled and said, 'Oh yes I should have guessed.
It's spring again so I'm back to build another nest.'
The hen said, 'Soon we both will be sitting on our eggs.
Not long after that there'll be babies ‘neath our legs.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'I wish my eggs weren't so small.
Your eggs are so large that your babies will be tall.'
Well the lovely laying hen said, 'Your eggs are just right.
And that song you sing brings everyone delight.'
From spring to fall wherever hens and wrens reside,
There'll be nests, eggs and babies chirping far and wide.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Ode' To Granddad
Granddad, on his screened porch sat one day;
Up in his lap I crawled, to rest from my play;
Very sparse stubble here and there for a beard;
He had acquired sandspurs in cheeks I feared;
Grandmother's tweezers would work I thought;
Quickly I leaped down and after them I sought;
I was back there in a flash to alleviate his pain;
I tugged here and there on his face with no gain;
I lost interest in the task; he just hugged me tight;
He laughed and let me know that he was all right;
He put in plain words for me what whiskers were;
He asked me if I understood; then I replied yes sir;
Older males have to shave often for a smooth face;
Yet men with a manicured beard aren't out of place;
I could find not one on my cheeks with my hand;
He chuckled wait until you become a young man;
A young man; just about everyone calls me one;
Maybe I'll just stay young; growing up is no fun;
I want to always feel secure in my Granddad's lap;
Possessing no worry in the world; I then took a nap.
poem by Joseph Blitch
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The Legend of Hell's Gate: An American Conspiracy
Eric Balfour, Lou Taylor Pucci, Henry Thomas, Jenna Dewan-Tatum, Summer Glau, Kevin Alejandro, Jamie Thomas King, Tanner Beard, Jim Beaver, Robert Buckley, James Lafferty
by Tanner Beard from The Legend of Hell's Gate: An American Conspiracy (2012)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Friend, Your White Beard Sweeps the Ground
Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground.
Why do you stand, expectant?
Do you hope to see it
In one of your withered days?
With your old eyes
Do you hope to see
The triumphal march of justice?
Do not wait, friend!
Take your white beard
And your old eyes
To more tender lands.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Will The Real David Harris Please Stand Up
Will the real David Harris please stand up?
I say that not in vain,
but because I am not, sure which face I wear.
I could be the man with a full beard
and looks like D H Lawrence,
or maybe the man with a slight goatee
who looks as if he has escaped
from a chain gang somewhere,
I am not really sure.
I could be the man
with the moustache and chin beard
we have often seen on old paperback books,
or I could be the man
with the Clark Gable looks.
Then again I could be the man
who is clean-shaven with a playboy look
whom people call Walter.
Therefore when you meet me
who will be the real me?
4 March 2009
poem by David Harris
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Shaved
He had wore a beard every since his early teens.
It had been at least thirty years since anyone saw him without it.
For those thirty years he felt he had something to hide.
But yesterday he shaved and freed himself from the thirty year mask he had been wearing.
He said it feels good to no longer have that itchy heavy beard weighing him down.
Yesterday he shaved when he finally told everyone he is gay.
Roland
shhhh
c'mon, c'mon
my best friend's a butcher, he has sixteen knives
he carries them all over the town
at least he tries oh look it stopped snowing
my best friend's from Poland and oh he has a beard
but they caught him with his case in a public place
that is what we had feared
he severed segments and secretely liked that
he always had the time to speak with me I liked him for that
he severed segments and secretely liked that
he always took the time
he always took the time
c'mon now pussycat
my best friend's a butcher, he has sixteen knives
he carries them all over the town
at least he tries oh look it stopped snowing
my best friend's from Poland and oh he has a beard
but they caught him with his case in a public place
that is what we had feared
he severed segments and secretely liked that
he always had the time to speak with me I liked him for that
he severed segments and secretely liked that
he was growing on me
he was growing on me
song performed by by Interpol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Romancing The Beard
What women are attracted to
Though to some it may seem weird
Is a man who has a curl-i-que
That we’ve come to call a beard
They seem to love what’s hair-ly
On the chin and down below
That hair they find so rarely
Is that hair that they can’t grow
They love that tickly feeling
When caressing bearded men
Those beards just send them reeling
For those men they have a yen
These ladies have this craving
For men with chin filled bristles
These men who do no shaving
Who have these chin filled frizzles
A beard can really dazzle
When covering a jawline
With it’s sexy kind of frazzle
It can dazzle any fraulein
poem by Stanley Cooper
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To God the Father
To the little, pitiful God I make my prayer,
The God with the long grey beard
And flowing robe fastened with a hempen girdle
Who sits nodding and muttering on the all-too-big throne
of Heaven.
What a long, long time, dear God, since you set the
stars in their places,
Girded the earth with the sea, and invented the day and
night.
And longer the time since you looked through the blue
window of Heaven
To see your children at play in a garden....
Now we are all stronger than you and wiser and more
arrogant,
In swift procession we pass you by.
"Who is that marionette nodding and muttering
On the all-too-big throne of Heaven?
Come down from your place, Grey Beard,
We have had enough of your play-acting!"
It is centuries since I believed in you,
But to-day my need of you has come back.
I want no rose-coloured future,
No books of learning, no protestations and denials--
I am sick of this ugly scramble,
I am tired of being pulled about--
O God, I want to sit on your knees
On the all-too-big throne of Heaven,
And fall asleep with my hands tangled in your grey
beard.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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The Barn
They should never have built a barn there, at all -
Drip, drip, drip! - under that elm tree,
Though when it was young. Now it is old
But good, not like the barn and me.
To-morrow they cut it down. They will leave
The barn, as I shall be left, maybe.
What holds it up? 'Twould not pay to pull down.
Well, this place has no other antiquity.
No abbey or castle looks so old
As this that Job Knight built in '54,
Built to keep corn for rats and men.
Now there's fowls in the roof, pigs on the floor.
What thatch survives is dung for the grass,
The best grass on the farm. A pity the roof
Will not bear a mower to mow it. But
Only fowls have foothold enough.
Starlings used to sit there with bubbling throats
Making a spiky beard as they chattered
And whistled and kissed, with heads in air,
Till they thought of something else that mattered.
But now they cannot find a place,
Among all those holes, for a nest any more.
It's the turn of lesser things, I suppose.
Once I fancied 'twas starlings they built it for.
poem by Edward Thomas
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