At twenty-nine, that was my age,
Not thirty, although near,
A bartender who couldn't gauge,
Sought proof to sell me beer.
I had a wife and kid at home,
A job for board and bed;
I was adult, how dare this gnome,
To question what I said!
I vowed this stuff would come no more,
A 'stache would do the trick,
And years flew by with no encore,
Time passing very quick.
I wear a full, grey beard today,
It suits me not to shave,
And proof of age, I have to say,
Is not a thing they crave.