For that lone shorn whisker,
Hewn down with its thousands of brothers,
Can't say that I'll miss her,
Could I have told her apart 'mong the throngs,
As they fell down so far,
Enveloped in drops destined for the drain,
Or embedded stubbornly in the bar?
Would she still be the same apart from me,
In some box on a shelf,
Alone when she should be part of a beard?
Could she have any self?
If alive, yes,
Alive, we all have hope,
If she changed her def'nition of alive,
She could thrive in that box than simply cope.