Young Tommy woke one morn with glee,
A shadow crept where none had been,
A prickly patch, a sight to see,
Upon his chin, the growth begin.
No longer smooth, his boyish face,
A bristly tide rolled in with might,
Each hair a soldier, taking place,
To mark his march from day to night.
He stood before the glass so proud,
A man emerging, bold and new,
The mirror sang his change aloud,
A beard for Tommy, fresh and true.
Through peach fuzz days to whiskers strong,
He groomed his prize with tender care,
A rite of passage, loud and long,
Tommy’s beard now crowned the air.