My Mustache: An Ode

Today, at eight thirty-four in the morning,
A tragedy happened beyond all compare.
Sharp metal blades sliced at a black-canvassed awning
Inflicting clean damage beyond all repair.

Oh, what is the meaning of such a disaster?
That dear fuzzy growth of a year and a half
Fell limp to the hand of its once-loyal master,
Its reward only darkness, and one nervous laugh.

What could lessen the pain of such cruel betrayal?
Or punishment as it was flushed down the drain?
As naught but a victim to vivid portrayal:
The fall of great hubris to utter disdain.

Before now there had occurred nothing abnormal,
Before now there had been no pitying hint.
And yet in an instant, both blithe and informal,
It was warned of its doom by a three-bladed glint.

How many times had it revealed its great function?
Enhancing a smile, maturing a face?
But it turned into only a sharp razor's luncheon;
Its glory demolished in shame and disgrace.

"But why now? And what for?" - it asked sadly of me,
And my answer could only be this, "I regret
To say that despite any past guarantee,
I'm losing you to win a five-dollar bet."