Tribute to the Bearded COVID Man

Here’s to you Mr. Bearded COVID Man. Yes, I’m talking to you with your coiffed mane and handlebar moustache. It’s taken years to cultivate, and now is martyred beneath a fabric cloth of heroism. 

Here’s to you Mr. Bearded COVID Man, with chops sprawling out of a surgical mask. I see you scrambling to locate your covering’s anchor. The conventional under-chin location? “NAY!”, you say. “It shall rest just below my lower lip” — a face thong of sorts, but covered nonetheless. 

Here’s to you, Mr. Bearded COVID Man. Once called Viking Warlord and Nordic King, your bush was the envy of every Leif, Magnus, and Vidar. Now veiled like Moses, your beard’s glory humbled behind a CDC-approved shroud.

Here’s to you, Mr. Bearded COVID Man. I know the dining room struggle to straighten your contorted Garibaldi, matted from a day of masking. Sadly, no amount of finger-combing can fix your facial Flock of Seagulls.

Here’s to you, Mr. Bearded COVID Man, with wisdom’s long view. Yes, for nine months your manhood has been sequestered, yet defiantly you refuse to forego your fur. Because you know that better days are coming. Indeed, you know that beards will once more (in the immortal words of Lloyd Christmas) flow like wine, and beautiful women will again instinctively flock like the salmon of the Capistrano. 

Here’s to you, Mr. Bearded COVID Man. 

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