Grampa wants to grow,
Wants to grow his whiskers
1 then 4 then
more and more
whiskers on his face
galore.

What do the people think
Of whiskers growing
more and more?
The colors all
‘a changing more
by day, by day, by
day!

What do the grandkids say
Of whiskers growing
more and more?
There's red and white
And black and brown,
The salt pot's fallen
Upside down!

What do Mom and Daddy say?
Of whiskers growing
more and more?
You look like "Spotty"
On a bad hair day,
Like everything's turned
Inside out!

Now, Grampa likes a
Cigarette.
All day long then
It's time for bed.

The smell of smoke
Gets everywhere!
In his whiskers,
In his clothes!
Mindful then of
Smelly toes!

How do they smell
These whiskers all?
Surely not like
Bath-time balls?!

More like yuck
And smelly stuff,
The kind of stuff
From a stable muck!

The neighbors think
It's a real stink!
Definitely not
The smell to
Think,

Of sugar and spice
And all that's nice!
Rather more like
Burnt oats or
Rice!

Or maybe like a
Dingy pub?
Where the best you get
Is dodgy
Grub!

By all accounts,
According to all
The whiskers growing
more and more,
Belong in the bin
Razor and
All! So...

Gramps no more does
Grow, does grow!
Nor light his fags up
No, no, no!
Whiskers groaning
Whoa, whoa, whoa!

As Grampa for
His razor reaches,
And hopes he smells like
Cream and peaches!
Much more less like
Burnt oats or
Rice!
He finally smells
VERY NICE!