A Beard Most Foul

I'll tell you of a beard most foul, Disgraceful, lewd and base. 'twas born and grew to adulthood Upon a sculptor's face. 'twas verily a parasite: It sapped him of his strength. It sprouted forth with vehemence; Extending its own length. As each year passed, the foul beard grew; The sculptor chipped his stone. He knewest not what it would do Nor why the beard had grown. One night most dark, when all was still, The sculptor slept in bed. The beard began to quiver fast: The sculptor woke in dread. The beard began to pull his skin: It pulled with gathering pace. 'twas trying to detach itself From the sculptor's startled face. It pulled and pulled and pulled in vain. It pulled without success. The sculptor's head was shaken hard: He fought in grave distress. The beard stretched out a tentacle And reached across the floor. Entwined around a chisel hard, The beard attacked once more. It ripped and tore the scuptor's face And chiselled hard and fast. The sculptor's face a bloody mess, The beard escaped at last. The sculptor lay upon the ground: He'd fainted, cold with fear. The beard was not yet through with him: It mounted his bare rear. It summoned up its fearful powers To form a hirsute prong: It swelled and swelled and swelled again, Till its rod was hard and long. The beard commenced its deed most foul And raped the sculptor's rump. It scoured his hoop with its bristly rod And flayed his buttocks plump. Thou knowest 'tis a fearsome tale Inspiring naught but awe. The sculptor lives in lonely shame: His ringpiece is still raw. Remember now my warning dire; My words you can't forget. Shave off your beard! Shave off your beard! For it may rape you yet.