My Uncle once told me, ‘You will never know love,
Until by a man with a moustache you are kissed’
And I waited and waited, but it never happened,
So I never knew what it was I had missed.
Quite recently my husband decided to grow one,
‘I am ex-RAF, ’ was his excuse on that day.
At first, ouch! It prickled, and then oh! It tickled;
But then, fully grown, it blew my mind away.
Though the moustache is pleasant, it isn’t so special.
I suppose it’s ok, just some hair he can twirl;
But the kisses are magic, and the truth of the matter,
Is just that my Ivor still makes my toes curl.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I bet he does, your poem is very catchy Irene I enjoyed it. Thank you. Ann