Mr McMarsh’s Eleven Moustaches
Mr McMarsh had eleven moustaches,
They all grew right under his nose,
The smallest was merely a whisker,
The largest reached down to his toes.
Each morning he carefully combed them,
Then pruned them like delicate flowers,
But he did it all ever so slowly
While locked in the bathroom for hours.
Oh, how his wife used to hate it,
She’d scream, “Hurry up!” through the door,
Yet Mr McMarsh just ignored her,
Until she could take it no more.
One day she declared, “That’s enough now,”
And burst in the room with a crash,
Then ripped from his face his moustaches
And threw them all out in the trash.
Now Mr McMarsh is moustache-less,
With not one hair under his nose,
And his wife’s bought a very sharp razor
To shave any hair that regrows.
They all grew right under his nose,
The smallest was merely a whisker,
The largest reached down to his toes.
Each morning he carefully combed them,
Then pruned them like delicate flowers,
But he did it all ever so slowly
While locked in the bathroom for hours.
Oh, how his wife used to hate it,
She’d scream, “Hurry up!” through the door,
Yet Mr McMarsh just ignored her,
Until she could take it no more.
One day she declared, “That’s enough now,”
And burst in the room with a crash,
Then ripped from his face his moustaches
And threw them all out in the trash.
Now Mr McMarsh is moustache-less,
With not one hair under his nose,
And his wife’s bought a very sharp razor
To shave any hair that regrows.
This poem is copyright (©) Jonathan Sellars 2024
About the Writer
Jonathan Sellars
Jonathan lives in Greenwich, England. He is severely obsessed with writing poems, primarily ones that rhyme. His work has featured in The Caterpillar and Parakeet magazine and his first picture book, Polly Plum: Brave Adventurer, comes out in Spring 2022. He has two small children, neither of whom can read or write poetry. He's not worried about that. Yet.
