The Barber
I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip,
Calling out, 'Next please! and pocketing my tip.'
All day I'd hear my scissors going, 'Snip, Snip, Snip;'
I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip
While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip.
But I wouldn't be a barber if ...
The razor was to slip.
Would you?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
The I'd like to be........ series
The Sailor
I'd like to be a sailor - a sailor bold and bluff -
Calling out, "Ship ahoy!" in manly tones and gruff.
I'd learn to box the compass, and to reef and tack and luff;
I'd sniff and sniff the briny breeze and never get enough.
Perhaps I'd chew tobacco, or an old black pipe I'd puff,
But I wouldn't be a sailor if ...
The sea was very rough.
Would you?
The Porter
I'd like to be a porter, and always on the run,
Calling out, "Stand aside!" and asking leave of none.
Shoving trucks on people's toes, and having splendid fun,
Slamming all the carriage doors and locking every one -
And, when they asked to be let in, I'd say, "It can't be done."
But I wouldn't be a porter if ...
The luggage weighed a ton.
Would you?
The Pieman
I'd like to be a Pieman, and ring a little bell,
Calling out, "Hot pies! Hot pies to sell!"
Apple-pies and Meat-pies, Cherry-pies as well,
Lots and lots and lots of pies - more than you can tell.
Big, rich Pork-pies! Oh, the lovely smell!
But I wouldn't be a Pieman if ...
I wasn't very well.
Would you?
The Barber
I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip,
Calling out, "Next please! and pocketing my tip."
All day I'd hear my scissors going, "Snip, Snip, Snip;"
I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip
While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip.
But I wouldn't be a barber if ...
The razor was to slip.
Would you?
The Teacher
I'd like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain,
Calling out, "Attention, please!" and "Must I speak in vain?"
I'd be quite strict with boys and girls whose minds I had to train,
And all the books and maps and things I'd carefully explain;
I'd make then learn the dates of kings, and all the capes of Spain;
But I wouldn't be a teacher if ...
I couldn't use the cane.
Would you?
The Postman
I'd like to be a postman, and walk along the street,
Calling out, "Good Morning, Sir," to gentlemen I meet,
Ringing every door-bell all along my beat,
In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat.
Perhaps I'd have a parasol in case of rain or heat;
But I wouldn't be a postman if ...
The walking hurt my feet.
Would you?
The Baker
I'd like to be a baker, and come when morning breaks,
Calling out, "Beeay-ko!" (that's the sound he makes) -
Riding in a rattle-cart that jogs and jolts and shakes,
Selling all the sweetest things a baker ever bakes;
Currant-buns and brandy-snaps, pastry all in flakes;
But I wouldn't be a baker if ...
I couldn't eat the cakes.
Would you?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cutting edge
Like a sharp knife
cutting through a bitter lemon
into red lips dripping
the hairdresser takes my pleasantries,
chops them with a cruel hand,
throws them back in pieces in my face
snip snip into blond hair, brown hair, black, grey, white,
what heroic restraint, condemned
to a lifetime’s cutting, and not
to plunge the scissors into a spinal cord…
this little girl who cut her finger with
her mother’s scissors perhaps
to try to explain how they cut her heart
her love that would grow like hair
how can I know the heart
of this woman who cuts my hair
so expertly.. snip, snip..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Spell
A low monotone ‘snip snip snip'
Drooping heads as in slumber deep
The mirrors reflect telling it all
The shed strands quietly fall.
Goes on the buzz ‘snip snip snip'
Are they awake or in deep sleep?
Getting off-loaded here's no hike
Lines of souls sit vampire-like.
No one speaks it's nobody's call
Heads mildly roll, tissues fall
Shrouded white from world disguised
The snipper's spells have them hypnotized.
The stupor breaks once ends the ride
A cruel world is waiting outside
The spell was so short, it's a pity
Time again for back to reality!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Haircut
I have wooly, wavy, woozy silvery hair
Cut just 20% you earn your fare
In bad trim down
Make sure I won't look like a clown.
With white cover she cuts away,
Her scissors, snip, snip night and day.
In mirror see my hair disappear
Trimmed nicely above each ear.
Finally touched my hair—few curls,
The more she accommodates I would adore.
Finish look seems more like 30% gone,
Hair wetted, scalped, I mirror no fun.
Next time another barber or good cutter
Better not scalp me" I sadly angry mutter
For well-kept hair on head?
I'd rather make more love in bed.
poem by Arthur Weil
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My haircut
My haircut,
It was a misserable time,
To watch my hair go,
Snip, snip, snip,
It drifts away in a silence unknown,
To all who have known,
The misserable haircut,
I love my hair,
But it had to go,
like seeing something die,
But i could never really weep,
It is sad to say goodbye,
My hair will grow back,
But only to see it go again.
poem by Trenton watson
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Striding Into Childhood
Clip clip clip…
The barbaric barber
As if venting his grudge
Swung his scissors –
The pleasure was his!
Battle ravaged, I walked out in the sun,
Leaving him with his fun, and then…
A floodgate in me opened
Transforming my mood –
Lightly I strode into childhood!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Bathroom Barber
I'm not a bathroom barber I've learned
gave myself a hair cut with my own two hands.
When all of a sudden I heard a loud noise
which took my mind off what hair to cut I had.
Then SNIP, it went off my head!
a large patch bald of hair is missing.
The dog looked at me puzzled and barked
and the cat raised her back and was hissing!
I must admit I looked a fright
with that large patch of missing hair.
When I got up nerve to look in the mirror
I even gave myself a scare!
I was only trying to save a buck
and give myself what looked to be so easy.
But with this patch of hair now missing
my head feels a bit more breezy.
I guess I'll have to spend the money
go to someone, where to them it isn't harder.
And never again will I pretend, to be a Bathroom Barber!
poem by Linda Winchell
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The Givers
Snip it.
What complaint would you have,
IF you had a heart that gave?
Quit it?
You are just part of this experience,
Life!
It is not about you or your whims!
The givers receive no attention at all.
And there you are falling down with tantrums!
Going ignored are your calls.
Snip it quick.
Shut your lips.
No tree grows from a branch.
When a leaf is released from it,
It dies, to wither and rust from its visit.
Connected are we all to this,
Life!
All your needs could be met...
IF your greed did not set things,
Off balance.
With needs you only feed.
One day you will learn,
All your suffering has been well earned...
By you!
Feeling screwed by the things you do?
You wouldn't feel this way,
IF you lived each day to 'give'!
You look for ways to take, use and squander!
That's why you wonder and wander...
Seeking to reap from life what is good!
What have you done?
Are you looking for ways to give to anyone?
Or are you here just to take?
Well...
Take this!
Shut your lips,
And learn what it is to give!
And all that this life is,
Can be yours.
You will receive what is deserved.
The givers serve without a mumbling word!
And all that is heard from you...
Are offers to undo what is done.
Takers get back,
That which has been given...
And comes to them in abundance!
A rusting of a nothingness achieved.
Leaving them with the results,
Of their selfish and hoarded greed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Get Your Hair Cut!
The perfect haircut suits you best,
Short back and sides, my lad!
So take your cash and go invest
In what makes most folks glad.
It's up to you to make the choice,
I gave you good advice...
So why look like the other boys,
When you could look quite nice?
I've seen you in the smartest suit
Let down by scruffy hair...
That's hardly what I'd call astute,
So almost debonair...
You used to be the one to watch,
The guy who had it all...
So why not take it up a notch?
Good-looking, standing tall.
Please get your hair cut soon as poss!
Don't dilly-dally, friend!
My word, it would impress the boss,
On that you can depend!
Keep up the good work that you do,
Eyes twinkling day by day!
Sit down, relax, snip-snip, you're through...
Thank God for that! Oi, vey!
Denis Martindale, copyright, January 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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This Morning At The Barbershop
This morning at the barbershop,
a barber is busy with the hair
of a much older grey haired man
that he is trimming neatly
and a young man
sits in one of the barber’s chairs.
When I sit down to wait
the young man rises
turning to me
and asks if he can cut my hair.
I was happy to get attention immediately
while the other barber was finishing
with the older man,
as he looks to finely tuned to me.
My hair was smartly cut
with a pair of scissors
and the young barber
held his fingers
to determine the length
and I wanted it shorter
than just cutting off the ends
while the other barber
first took a hair blower
from a drawer,
sprayed something over his own hair
before he started to blow it in the mirror
and he then said
that he cannot go
to the bank to wait in line
with a head looking like Tut’s ass
and I saw my locks
falling dark brown
with dots of grey around me
and saw the other barber
combing his long hair
and smiled at myself
about the vanity of humanity
while I looked at myself
and were starting to look much better.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I'll Get One Tomorrow
Barber, barber, come and get me;
Hairy torrents irk and fret me.
Hair and hair again appears;
And climbs like ivy round my ears.
Hair across my collar gambols;
Down my neck it wayward ambles.
Ever down it trip it tickles;
Yes, where it trips it tickles.
Barber dear I wish I knew;
Why i do not visit you.
Why I grudge the minutes ten;
In your smiling den.
Why I choose to choke on hair;
Rather than to mount your chair.
Men no busier than I;
Weekly to your office hie.
Men no busier than myself;
Confront the armory on your shelf;
Men no wealthier than me;
Gladly meet your modest fee.
And for a fraction of a dollar;
Keep the jungle off their collar.
I alone am shy and flustered;
Solitary, cowardly custard.
Shaggy as a prize angore;
Overrun with the creeping flora.
Barber, barber, you’re in luck;
The bell has rung, the hour has struck.
Sloth strong, the hair is strong;
I cannot stand it any long.
Barber, barber here I come;
Shake up the odorous bay rum.
Bring on your shears your scythes, your snippers;
Bring on your crisp electric driers.
Employ a dozen extra sweepers;
Bring giant harvesters and reapers.
I warn you a bumper crop;
Waits to overwhelm your shop.
Braber, barber, be verbose;
Be anything but clip me close.
Leave me razored, leave me scissored
Leave me hairless, as a lizard;
Barber, barber, single and scald;
Barber can’t you make me bald?
I will be the happiest of men;
And never think of you again.
poem by Ogden Nash
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I don't look on poetry as closed works. I feel they're going on all the time in my head and I occasionally snip off a length.
quote by John Ashbery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Haircut.
The Barber came to cut my hair,
I told him that it wasn't fair.
My hair had done him no harm,
Without it I would loose my charm.
The Barber he grinned a silly grin,
Said to cut my hair would be no sin.
That I should face it like a man,
But I'm a coward and away I ran.
Do you like sitting in a Barbers chair,
With him chopping away your lovely hair.
Once my head was full of curls,
Covering my face with twisty twirls.
But then the Barber came my way,
I was a child, I had no say.
Off came my curls one by one,
The Barber seemed to have great fun.
Now I'm old and very grey,
I'm nearly bald, my hairs gone away.
But when I see a Barbers chair,
I feel the loss of my curly hair.
You know I truly rue the day,
When that first Barber came my way.
poem by Bernard Shaw
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Caught In A Moment
Your stare swallows me
And I can hardly breathe
I feel it's dangerous,
Could be deadly
Somehow I'm willing to do the things you want
Take me in your arms
Spoon-feed my heart and
Drip by drip
I'll take it all
Sip by sip
I guess that it's
Make or break
Boy here and now
Chorus:
We're caught in a moment
And I won't let it go
I am falling deeper, losing my control
Involved in a feeling
Like the blink of an eye
And the silence it belongs to you and I
Broke through barriers
And passed a state of mind
I'm not scared no more
It feels divine
So take me in
And catch me when I fall
I'm waiting on the edge
Uncut my soul
Snip by snip
I'm oozing it
Bit by bit
I'm taking it
Step by step
Boy here and now
Chorus:
We're caught in a moment
And I won't let it go
I am falling deeper, losing my control
Involved in a feeling
Like the blink of a eye
And the silence it belongs to you and I
Secretly I let it slip
Emotional I fall through it
All I know I'm losing my control
I'm down your way too far
And there's no turning back
And now I'm shedding all my fears
I know, I know
Chorus:
We're caught in a moment
And I won't let it go (let it go)
I am falling deeper, losing my control (my control)
Involved in a feeling (involved in a feeling)
Like the blink of a eye (eye)
And the silence it belongs to you and I (I)
oooh ahhh ooooh oooh
oooh ahhh ooooh oooh
oooh ahhh ooooh oooh
song performed by by Sugababes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Man from Iron Bark
It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash he smoked a huge cigar;
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, 'Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.'
There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut,
'I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
'I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'
A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark -
No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark.
He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
'You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark.'
He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And 'Murder! Bloody murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.
A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said ''Twas all in fun'
Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'
'A joke!' he cried, 'By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.'
And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Sleeping With Roses
I'll have to stop thinking of you;
it is too much like kissing a dying rose
or speaking into a void
hearing only my own echos.
It is too teen-aged sad
to obsess like this;
memorizing your phone number backwards,
counting the steps to your house,
taping your photo inside my bra,
making up excuses
to be where you are,
or might be,
lingering
long after it is clear
you're not there,
and not coming.
I'll have to snip these little traces of you from my mind;
remove your after-shave from the medicine cabinet,
cease discreetly inquiring of you
from mutual friends
whilst I pretend,
no real interest.
But they are not fooled;
they see this obsession's grip
and I'm sure silently lament
my entanglement in its delicate cords.
And I, on my part,
while acknowledging it is odd and maybe unhealthy
for me to behave like this,
my Hearts Heart
knows what I really feel-
which is its better to have these memories
than to inhabit some memory less void.
No, better to wrap you lovingly
among my Gentle Regrets
than sleep with a dying rose
slowly bleeding
from its pin-prick thorns.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Signs Of Winter
It can get a bit nippy.
And a little cool as expected.
But there is nothing pretentious,
About the signs of Winter.
Or the people,
Being within its midst.
Unlike when in warmer weather,
When people walk around...
With ice and snow on the ground,
And give others a cold shoulder...
Very few people take it personal.
There seems to be a reason,
To snap back and be snooty.
And some are quick to snip,
And be 'clippish'.
'Get out of my way! '
~Sure.
No problem.
Happy holidays.~
'Whatever.'
And every year,
Winter seems to arrive...
Way ahead of schedule.
As if not to disappoint those who love it.
Especially in New England.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tom
That Tom was poor was sure a pity,
Such guts for learning had the lad;
He took to Greek like babe to titty,
And he was mathematic mad.
I loved to prime him up with knowledge,
A brighter lad I never knew;
I dreamed that he would go to college
And there be honoured too.
But no! His Dad said, "Son, I need you
To keep the kettle on the boil;
No longer can I clothe and feed you,
Buy study books and midnight oil.
I carry on as best I'm able,
A humble tailor, as you know;
And you must squat cross-legged a table
And learn to snip and sew."
And that is what poor Tom is doing.
He bravely makes the best of it;
But as he "fits" you he is knowing
That he himself is a misfit;
And thinks as he fulfils his calling,
With patient heart yet deep distaste,
Like clippings from his shears down-falling,
--He, too, is Waste.
poem by Robert William Service
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There's no regret. You can't regret. I mean, I've felt regret but I've also refused to allow regret to sow a seed and live in me because I don't believe it. You feel it, it's like guilt, it's like jealousy, it's like all those horrible things. You've just got to snip them and get them out, because they're no good.