wrestling
Thee ‘Stache Of Thee Gods (lookin’ goode, dogge)
Behold the king who wears no crown.
But instead a moustache.
Glorious.
Incorruptible.
Benevolent.
The hair upon their lip is the sign
Of the one that is chosen
To to rule.
Why?
Because no one could forge it but they.
They you say?
Sure why not. He. She. Whatever.
It’s the symbolism that matters here.
(And hormones probably played a role, sure)
But that they would not be crowned by
Some bedazzled construct imbued with
False majesty
False agency
False authority
It was born of their own choosing and doing
And while always able to be shaved away
Unlike precious metals and bright stones
Which could be melted down cast away
It would always return to the bearer
They that grow it
They that wear it
That they live it
(Unless their lip was scarred by fire)
But that, my skeptical chum
Is what sideburns
Were made for.
A sweet, hairy, royal backup.
Long live the king.
Long grow their whiskers.
The king is dead.
But in eternity blooms that hairy flower
On their face.
the Leather Douche 