When Father Shaves His Face

When father shaves his stubbly face
At nine on Sunday morn,
There always steals upon the place
A feeling of forlorn.
An awful silence settles down
On all the human race;
It’s like a funeral in town
When father shaves his face.

He gets his razor from the shelf
And strops it up and down;
And mutters wildly to himself
And throws us all a frown,
We dare not look to left or right,
Or breathe in any case;
E’en mother has to tiptoe quite
When father shaves his face.

He plasters lather everywhere,
And shuts the window pane;
But mother says she doesn’t care.
She 11 clean it off again.
She tries to please him all she can,
To save us from disgrace;
For he’s an awful nervous man
When father shaves his face.

We try to sit like mummies there,
And live the ordeal through;
And hear that razor rip and tear,
And likewise father, too.
And if it slips and cuts his chin,
We jump and quit the place;
No power on earth can keep us in
If father cuts his face.

c. April 10, ‘09

pub. in New York Herald