You run into them ambling
Usually solaced or colourless
Children proffer them hand, smiling
Ladies and fellows mock them, pitiless
And question them in mockery
Is the earth your trousers’ nightmare?
Nay, it’s gratification, and be not sorry
A figure of fun laughs, but can’t dare
I let live and leave my green beard
And untangle it bared
Other fundamentalists shave
Unlike me who crave to save
You see them envied of maturity
Oh, country cousins, it’s purity.
