I could never grow a moustache
where Hitler wore his,
pinned like a bowtie,
straight and square, center
inside the German Opera House.
This patch remains forever barren,
above my lip,
which kissed his new wife farewell
before tumbling on the cement floor
with that old dark haired whore—
whom he sent so many boys
to lay down with
before it was finally his turn
for sloppy seconds with his own pistol,
after she bit into it.
I could never grow a moustache there—
although I tried to once or twice,
when I was a teenager— just to see
if I could do it or not. I could not.
Sometimes, I wonder, though,
if I set down my razor long enough,
would anything begin to grow?