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Contest #8 Funniest Shave Poem

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Contest #8 Funniest Shave Poem
Here is your chance to show how well you can amuse by trying to abuse your use of poetic license.

The rules of this contest are simple. Post a silly shaving-related rhyme into this thread to enter. Your peers will decide how well you followed the rules of Hauku, Iambic Pentamater, etc. and crown by vote the BB&BB (Best B&B Bard).

This contest is being sponsored by Menessentials and the prize is a TAOS 4 Elements Gift Set.


For some inspiration:


Hickory Dickory Doc
The mouse ran up the alum block
The clock struck ten
I found shaving zen
Hickory Dickory Doc

Note: You cannot use this verse. It has been copyrighted by scoopster - and would not win anyway


Have Fun!​

*Due to USPS shipping restrictions, this contest is only available to CONUS members. We truly apologize to our overseas members.
Ode To A Well Honed Blade

The morning shave drudgery,
I have pondered for some time,
The dull routine,
The price of blades - a crime.

The quality inferior,
The closeness ho-hum,
Even my wife dissatisfied,
With my sticks alum.

Alas one night,
My nerves slightly frayed,
The computer all a flicker
It beckons - Badger and Blade.

Where to begin?
With Razor, Brush or Cream,
Where to begin?
Overwhelmed in some fevered dream.

Double edge, yes!
The cut-throat too odd,
I want to see tomorrow,
Not the chair of Sweeney Todd!

So, I’m sold on King Gillette,
The founder from ‘04,
Fusion, Trac II, Edge,
All out the door.

But, the gizmo is drab,
Tarnished - not fit for stubbles,
Squirt and brush,
With Scrubbing Bubbles.

But what about germs?
How to stem the tide?
Alcohol won’t do it,
Must use Barbicide!

But one razor’s not enough,
Sitting lone and sad,
Excuse me Dr. Freud,
What’s this thing they call RAD?

Fat handled Techs in silver and gold,
Aristocrats, Diplomats, Presidents,
Its in the rings I’m told.

So its Red Tip and Blue Tip,
As quick as you can,
Even a tip quest,
The Fabled Tip of Tan.

Fat boy, Slim boy, what’s a boy to do?
Oh no! the endcaps fell off,
Ebay I’ll sue.
“Nix,” says Coon Cat, Third Eye too,
Go to the hardware - secure with Crazy Glue - good as new.

On to a brush - Badger or Boar?
Is one enough?
Or will there have to be more?

Mr. Badger it is,
How the foam will billow,
Mr. Toad, and Ratty too,
The Wind in the Willow.

Yes, Badger it is,
I’ve mastered the knack,
To Bernd of Wendelstein
A 177 Shavemac.

Though it could have been Kent,
And S.R. and Chubby,
But if the Missus found out,
Time for a new hubby.

Must have blades too,
Their sharpness they boast,
Try a sampler of 5,
Shipped straight from West Coast.

Crystal and Red Personna,
From the Land of Milk and Honey,
Sharp and economical,
Did I just save some money?

Holy Toledo,
Ohio or Spain?
There are Wilkinsons too,
I’m going insane.

And the dreaded of all,
The one they call Feather,
Are you man enough - or woman enough?
Is your face made of leather?
Sharp they are,
Tres sharp I confess,
Perfect in fact,
A veritable BBS.

But watch their cost,
It can be dear,
Purchase with caution,
Or, to the poor house I fear.

But what about Bic?
And Astras, Treets to try,
And Sputnik and Polsilver,
And don’t forget Kai.

And 7 O’Clocks as well,
Not from “you know who” they bellow,
To heck with them all,
I want green, grey, and yellow!

Last but not least,
There needs to be foam,
For soaps and creams,
The web I must roam.

There’s QED, mmm, Grapefruit and Mint,
And Mama Bear’s lush scents,
Linger with a hint.

Oh and Proraso and Musgo,
Trumper, Castle Forbes and TOBS,
A few swirls and presto,
There’s lather in gobs.

So this is my ode -
My obsession, my confession,
Education vacation,
Treasure and pleasure,
Distraction attraction,
A craze that can’t be slowed.

Alas there is only,
One cure I seek,
To be able to shave,
8 days a week.
the razor they said; it was sharp
the blade to my face it did part
all the passion I know
from my face it did flow
this shavings not science, it's art :biggrin:
The thin metal strip
That slips 'tween
Whisker and skin
Leaves me fresh
And youthfull again
Then a splash of fair juice
On a clean shavin face
And I'm ready, and willing
To leave my home place
Taco at the Sink

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Bluestaco that spring day;
Fourteen months with little work and very skimpy pay,
The freelance work had petered out; the band gigs did the same,
The poor man only had a few more dollars to his name.

The food stamps had long since run out; the bills ate up the rest,
But hope still sprang eternal—even in Bluestaco’s breast.
“If there was just a market,” he sighed, “for what I’m good at.”
“If I could only catch a break, just get my turn at bat.”

Things had hit rock bottom and they couldn’t get much worse,
But then the final straw, the proof Bluestaco’s life was cursed:
The landlord called and said, “Guess what—my fortune has improved!
I’ve sold this place for quite a sum. Oh…and you’ll have to move.”

So Bluestaco was homeless on the fourteenth day of May,
But one kind friend said, “I’ll make room. Come over here and stay.”
There wasn’t room or food enough for one, much less for two,
But then a call came: “Finally! Hot damn, an interview!”

“You’re going to need a haircut,” Taco’s friend said, “And that stubble—”
“Uh-oh,” said Taco, “I am, once again, in lots of trouble.
I don’t have a decent shirt. Just pants, a tie, and blazer.
Plus, I’ll need gas to get there. Oh, and I don’t have a razor.”

Between them both, they managed to come up with thirty bucks,
Which bought a dress shirt and some gas, and even more bad luck:
The stylist at the hair salon (due to insanity)
Gave Bluestaco a MULLET! (Oh, God! The Humanity!)

They fixed the “Tennessee Tophat” themselves; they had to save
A few more dollars yet: Bluestaco still needed a shave.
And right on cue, cruel fate played yet another nasty joke:
A flat tire. That was it. Our man was now completely broke.

“No, wait,” he thought, “I think I might be able to arrange
A way to get a shave if I can come up with some change.”
He checked under the car seats, and with diligence and luck
Bluestaco managed to come up with just over a buck.

“The antique store,” his friend said, “I saw some old razors there.
I’ll see if I can find another dollar I can spare.”
So Taco bought some double edge blades at the dollar store,
And as a gift, his friend bought him a black Gillette P-4.

So Taco “lathered” up his face with slimy, canned, blue goo
In preparation for that afternoon’s job interview.
The shave was quite a hack-job. Fate had played him one more trick.
Bluestaco looked like something out of some cheap splatter flick!

“I can’t believe this!” Taco screamed. His friend screamed even louder.
But by luck (for once) Bluestaco had a stash of styptic powder!
He finally stopped bleeding from each nick, each gash, each weeper.
“Thank God,” he said, “that damned thing didn’t cut me any deeper!”

He shined his shoes and tied his tie and checked his face once more,
His friend yelled, “Taco, break a leg!” as he stepped out the door.
In the car, he checked his burning face through rear-view mirror;
He wasn’t bleeding, but his skin had definitely been clearer.

“Please, God, help me get this job,” he prayed the whole way there.
He gave the mirror one more check and straightened up his hair.
The rest of that day was intense beyond imagination,
And not unlike a gangster film bare-bulb interrogation.

The interviewers shook his hand and said, “Thanks for your time.
Can you come back again next week?” And Taco said, “Sure, fine!”
He went for three more interviews…but things did not pan out:
There was no joy in Mudville—our man, Taco, had struck out.

But in the end, through lots of prayer, Bluestaco changed his life:
Last year the friend who took him in back then became his wife!
He is “and editor” and he’s not homeless anymore,
And he still loves his best friend and that black Gillette P-4.
A handsome young barber named Mat
Does a bloody good shave and that's that!
For a few dollars more there'll be no blood on the floor
And your nose won't go home in your hat.

Idiot :lol::lol::lol::lol:


When I was a little shaver
Dad said, "Son, be a man."
And he gave me a plastic Trak II razor
And a shiny shiny can.

So I smeared my face with goo
And scraped it off my chin
And I cursed the air in the bathroom blue
When the bleeding did begin.

I shaved before each date
I shaved before the prom
And I'd slice my face and curse my fate
And bleed, and holler "Mom!"

My shaves grew worse and worse
But what else could there be?
I thought, "If Dad has to bleed and curse
That's good enough for me."

But standing on the bathmat
With that shiny shiny can
And a razor that shaves like an angry cat--
It's HARD to be a man.

They added blades to my razor
(Two just wasn't enough)
My miserable shaves didn't get any better
But I had to buy more stuff.

Oh pity the modern man
As he peers at the drug store shelves
And the ad men laugh as he buys his can.
We're sheep that shear ourselves.
Can I borrow from a previous post? I wrote and posted this one a while back:

I am the very model of a major shaving fanatical,
I post information randomly, haughtily, and sporadical,
I shave with razors both manual and mechanical,
From Gillette to Schick in order alphabetical

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters after-shave-ical,
I understand preparations, both conservative and radical
About Bay Rum I'm teeming with a lot o' news
With many cheerful facts about Aqua Velva Blue

With many cheerful facts about Aqua Velva Blue
With many cheerful facts about Aqua Velva Blue
With many cheerful facts about Aqua Velva Blue
With many cheerful facts about Aqua Velva Blue

But still, in matters shaving, wet and methodical
He is the very model of a major shaving fanatical
My life as a wetshaver in limericks:

There once was a boy named Shane
Who when young grew a glorious mane
Three dull blades gave me pimples
Instead of cute dimples
Not to mention the blood loss and pain.

As a teenager things would get worse
Because shaving was more of a curse
On my face there were dots
Ingrown hairs and red spots
And the females were ruthless and terse.

I entered a hairy new age
Where I looked like I lived in a cage
And all that I feared
Was losing my beard
Thoughts of shaving put me in a rage.

Then my grandfather told me it's dumb
That I grew my beard long like a bum
When I told him shaving hurt
He called me a squirt
And said I was sitting on my thumb.

My facial hair started to itch
The sensation was making me twitch
There had to be one way,
A good way, a fun way
To shave off this son-of-a-*****!

One day it hit me like a brick
Those three blades made my face look so sick!
Having quite an old soul
I lathered in a bowl
And shaved with my Grandpa's old Schick.

From the outset it felt so much better
The shave soap was warmer and wetter
The boar brush gave me
A reason for glee
I looked like a brisk, young go-getter.

I needed a rig of my own
But who just sold razors alone?
I decided one day
To go look on eBay
And the seeds of obsession were sown.

At the age of 19 came Gillette
Double edged blades and soon you could bet
All the people would see
A clean-shaven new me
Brush and soap and I thought I was set.

But I was so terribly wrong
As I heard a distant siren's song
This sweet singing maid
Was Badger & Blade
And I knew I'd be hooked before long.

This forum has led me to buy
Different things for the gentlemanly guy
Visa and Mastercard
Purchasing isn't hard
Until the credit bills come and you cry.

Justifying purchases isn't easy
And it's made some of my girlfriends queasy
When they see all my swag
I just say "It's my bag,
Feel my skin, smooth, soft and not greasy!"

It's been seven long years and I'm learning
That a passion for shaving is burning
Though it's bleeding me dry
I can hold my head high
For my stuff's for the cool and discerning.

I really do not see an end
And I know that I cannot pretend
Razors, blades, brushes, creams
And as good as it seems
There's more money which I plan to spend.

Through all of the shaving I've done
And trust me, I've shaved a ton
I'll continue to be
Right here at B&B
Where the gentlemen make the internet fun.

Where else can you learn about scotch
Or how to wind your old watch
Cooking steak, fountain pens
The right camera lens
This forum kicks it up a notch!

So while some think wetshaving's a joke
It's made me one damn happy bloke
Before this poem dies away
To you all I can say
A series of shaving Haikus.

A Real Shave
It might be the cream
It could be the badger brush
It likely is you

A Good Shave
First you learn the speak
Then you master the technique
A baby butt shave

A Slanted Shave
The silver Slant gleams
The lather is soft and slick
The blood clots quickly
Acrostic Poem style.

The long forgotten

Reaching backwards in time
Among the long forgotten arts of man
Zero resistance as we hone our blades, and our skills
Opening our eyes to simplicity and beauty
Realizing that there was never a choice to be made.

Oh, this was supposed to be funny.. Woops. Here's a second Acrostic poem, funny-style:

Brush goes fwip fwip across my face
Luxurious lather, coating my ugly mug
Accidents happen, or so they say
Does anyone wonder how shaving cream tastes? I don't anymore.
Mmmkay... here it is gents. A new original from the original B&B bard. With thanks to Dave for his post which encouraged me to finish it. (although I still think I'm voting for Shane) :tongue:

"The Badger" - by Castlecraver (Pat)
with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a morning drowsy, my face I pondered, rough and lousy,
Over another curious can of green goo from the store,
While I wished I was still napping, suddendly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my bathroom door.
“Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my bathroom door;
only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December
And I had not yet become a member of that forum of great rapport.
Eagerly I wished for smoothness, vainly I had sought to soothe this
pain that was so ruthless, ruthless with my face so sore.
For my red and aching face which endured this daily chore.
Painless now, forevermore.

And the strange bright green ripple of each glop of goo
depressed me—filled me with a dread that I could not ignore,
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my bathroom door,
Some inconsiderate jerk entreating entrance at my bathroom door.
This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your patience I implore;
But the fact is I was shaving, and so annoyingly you came raving
why the hell you're so ill-behaving, tapping at my bathroom door?
I can't believe your rudeness.” Here I opened wide the door;--
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness looking, long I stood there, my anger cooking
Wondering, who wished to bother me and what the heck for,
Although my eyes were blinded I was once again reminded
Even more rudely reminded of the task that I abhor,
Curses I whispered, and my mirror echoed back the words,
Mere profanity, and nothing more.

Back into my bathroom making, all my face so raw and aching,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
“Surely as I hold this blade, it is she who must be obeyed.
Let me see, then, how I may be of aid to the woman I adore!
Go assist her, lest I fear her mighty roar
'Tis but her, and nothing more.”

Over there I checked the bedroom, still dark as a dead tomb
Therein lay my wife, sleeping still without a snore.
Up the hall I made my regress, with a great amount of distress
Which made my screams hard to suppress upon returning to my chore
For by my feet sat a badger, laying quietly on the floor
There it sat, and nothing more.

Then this gray vermin I thought vicious, produced a smell quite delicious
From a small tub of Trumper's which I'd never seen before.
“Though thy face be poorly shaven thou,” it said, “I'm sure no maven
lather has graced your cheek so craven; brushless as I find your drawer.
I came to ensure that you'll go on without shaving joy galore,”
Sayeth the badger, “nevermore!”

Much I marveled this disturbing rodent and the tub that smelled so potent
Through his words what little meaning, incomprehensibly bore,
But we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing a badger upon his bathroom floor.
An vocal beast upon the tile which covered his bathroom floor,
Who's last word sounded a lot like “nevermore.”

But the badger, sitting lonely on that tile spoke only
As he crawled up beside my sink bowl and stood upon the drawer.
Nothing further then he uttered, not a hair upon him fluttered,
As he dispensed that sweet-smelling butter into my ceramic décor,
Then showered himself under the faucet, then around the sink he tore.
More confused could I be nevermore.

Startled at the creamy lather, that quickly began to gather
along the bowl of my sink and shone like gleaming ore.
Quicker then again he swirled, through the lather thick and whirled
As this crazy scene unfurled, through the lather he did soar.
Then he took my can of Edge gel and threw it down upon the floor.
Saying to it, “Nevermore!”

Then the badger, fit to stay there took the lather from its back hair
And flung it to my face as I was backing towards the door.
Fancy then I felt the embrace of the warm lather upon my face
Fresh like flowers from a vase, soon my dread was there no more.
For then I knew that canned goo, even come pestilence, famine or war
would grace my face nevermore.

Down below from where he scanned me, the badger he did hand me,
A chrome Merkur double-edge, (the first of many a shaving score)
Loaded with a brand new Feather, though I clearly knew not whether
I could bring it and my face together lest my tender cheek it tore.
But the badger reassured me that there would be no bloody gore.
And ingrown hairs would be nevermore.

And I shaved like it ought to be, and the badger sat and taught me
Until my face was made crisp, clean, and smooth to the very core.
The badger leaped and smiled and although I was still quite riled
The shave had left me beguiled and wanting even more.
So the badger whispered to me a website to explore
Foreign to me nevermore.

Now every day I shave as such, albeit now with a badger brush
And it is surely no longer such an awful chore
So now I impart to you dear reader, without the badger as your leader
but urging you to be eager to build our shaving lore.
Do make time for this transcendent manly ritual and your
face will spite you, nevermore!
Posted this elsewhere, but decided it belongs over here as well..

Ode to Tabac

Born in der Fatherland
I take my badger brush in hand
The lather builds, I feel like a man
I love the aroma that others just can't stand
To His Dull Gillette

(With apologies to Andrew Marvell)

Had we but foam enough, and time,
This dullness, Mach3, were no crime.
I might stand here and think which way,
To lubricate your wretched shave;
Thou by my bloodied sink abrade,
My sideburns ragged, my cheekbones flayed.
Of Feathers would I fantasize,
Smooth, close shaves, not realized.
And I should, if I please, dispose,
‘Til my Gillette collection grows.
My shave accoutrements expand,
Vaster than Achim’s and more grand.
A dozen Fatboys sit uncleaned,
The Visa’s maxed, my wife is steamed.
That bargain Superspeed? I’ve learned,
Some ebay vendors leave you burned.
Ten cents, I crowed, for every blade,
This hobby’s cheap, it’s money saved!
But, I’m compulsive, I collect,
I’m a bit off in that respect.

But in my heart, I always know,
Like bikes, CDs, tube audio,
These things get pricey, they occupy,
My office shelves all piled high.
A close shave is no more the point,
My intent is to fill the joint.
My echoing song “It’s an investment!”
My wife’s a skeptic, though e’er indulgent.
She rolls her eyes, I freely natter,
A dull disourse: The ideal lather.
The head’s a fine and private place,
But must you detail every shave?

Now therefore, when the AM stubble,
Falls from my chin, I mustn’t trouble.
And razor burn, severe, transpires,
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let me shave me, while I can;
A loathsome task for modern man,
Rather for some, this curious pleasure,
I’ll take an hour, at my leisure.
Let me jam all my gear, and all
My blades into one shelf, one wall;
Confine my talk to forum patter,
And spare my wife my dreadful chatter.
Thus, though I cannot make my shave,
Butt smooth, yet I’ll contain my rave.

Note to unattached men: Memorize Marvell's To His Coy Mistress. Trust me; it works.
There once was a man from Nantucket,
Whose scuttle was an old grey bucket,
When slicing his hair,
With diligence and care,
He'd find a stray and pluck it.
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