Boris, ’twas said, was a hundred years old
with a beard right down to his feet.
Amassed in the hair
was all manner of fare
he’d spilled while attempting to eat.
Boris had oathed to dispose of all clothes –
his beard made a wonderful cloak.
It tickled a bit
and was awkward to sit
and muffled his voice when he spoke.
Often Boris would slip as his beard made him trip
or entangled itself in his toes.
Reluctant to trim it
or set a length limit,
he’d left it to grow and to grow.
The day did not come of a hundred and one,
the story is sad to be told…
For Boris got trapped.
In his beard he was wrapped
and cocooned there until he turned cold.