THE BEARD-GROWERS' BALL

You know that thing when you think of something silly and far-fetched, and you never imagine that anyone would actually do it... and then randomly, one day, it just happens anyway in America somewhere, and you read about it on the Internet?

Well a few years ago I wrote a poem about bearded men getting together for a knees up to celebrate their wacky beards and moustaches... and guess what... it's happening. In Hollywood. The 3rd annual  Beard and Moustache Competition.

'Hairy contestants descended on Hollywood this weekend to take part in the 3rd annual Beard and Moustache Competition. There were 12 categories for the event, hosted by the Los Angeles Facial Hair Society, including 'Business Beard' and the 'Whiskerinas' for female participants.' 

- Yahoo News, UK and Ireland.

While I let you process that lovely image, I'll dig out my old poem so you can see what I'm talking about; it's kind of Edward Lear style nonsense. Of course, had there been complete synchronicity, those bearded wonders would have waited until November to hold their peculiar festival, but you can't be right all the time.


THE BEARD-GROWERS' BALL

In a small town of northern importance
Where the world is incredibly fair
There's an annual treat for the sportants
Of impossible chin-growing hair

On the night of the Fourth of November
When the air is as crisp as a sheet
They gather to ever remember
The beards which cover their feet

Come one, come all!
To the beard-growers' ball
Where the follicles shimmer and spin
Where the air is a-blur
With the presence of fur
And the last thing in sight is a chin

They gather in forested shire
The goatees, the van-dykes and all
With music they dance round the fire
At the annual beard-growers' ball

When the flute and the fiddle are playing
And the moon has roundly appeared
Remember the ancient ones saying,
'O don't trip over your beard,
Your beard
O don't trip over your beard.'

Come one, come all!
To the beard-growers' ball
Where the follicles shimmer and spin
Where the air is a-blur
With the presence of fur
And the last thing in sight is a chin

And the bearded ones sing till the dawning
Of the sun's great return to the sky
Then they shake hairy hands in the morning
'Till next year!' they plaintively cry

Till they dance with a wanton abandon
And they sing through their beards, one and all
Whilst combing their faces at random
At the annual beard-growers' ball

Come one, come all!
To the beard-growers' ball
Where the follicles shimmer and spin
Where the air is a-blur
With the presence of fur
And the last thing in sight is a chin