Grandad's Moustache - Poem by Judith Blatherwick

My Grandad was a great man;
Very kind but still quite stern.
He didn't give us handouts.
All we got we had to earn.

The war had shaped his facade.
He had been a flying ace.
He stood up tall and dashing
A bushy moustache graced his face.

He twirled it when deep thinking.
He twirled through war and truce.
And I am quite convinced that
With this twirling it came loose.

For once I spent an evening
Watching Grandad take a nap.
He twirled his 'tash while sleeping
And it dropped onto his lap!

It twitched there upon landing
Then it dropped onto the floor.
It ran across the carpet.
I could see the 'tash no more.

I heard it in the shadows
As it skittered in the dark.
I tried to wake my Grandad,
But he'd gone out like a spark.

I stared at Grandad sleeping
While his moustache took a trip.
His hand reached up and Grandad
Scratched his unmoustached top lip.

Then suddenly his moustache,
Having had its exercise,
Ran from beneath the sideboard
Right beneath my very eyes.

It climbed up onto Grandad,
And it took its rightful place.
It wiggled and it parked up
On my Grandad's naked face.

Grandad woke up shortly,
And he saw me as I stared.
I must admit I looked shocked
As I felt a little scared.

I told him what had happened,
How his 'tash had run about.
His glare was quite unyielding.
I expected him to shout.

But Grandad barely whispered
As he told me I was wrong.
He'd never lost his moustache,
He had had it for so long.

But I was quite insistent;
Knew exactly what I'd seen.
I pointed to the sideboard
Under which the 'tash had been.

He looked into the mirror,
Stroked his 'tash and gave a frown.
Then turned to me, quite puzzled,
For his 'tash was upside down!

Poems by Judith Blatherwick

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