The furry beast.

Every morning you are there and I tremble with great fear. My spirits plummet, and I cringe as I reach out for my spear. I slice and dice the beast of hate and flying goes its fur. But on the moring of the next day the same old thing occurs. “Oh woe is me!” my cries are heard. The walls are soaked with blood. My skin’s criss-crossed with slashes deep bringing forth a bloody flood. And I think to myself: “God, I hate shaving!”