Remember when you licked the beaters
As your mum baked cakes?
Nostalgia of innocence teeters,
Recaptured on my lips
Today, after making meringue
For a raspberry daquise.
Fabulously, fruity favourite, heart-sang,
Laughing afterwards as I notice a leftover moustache.

She could have sworn Charlie Chaplin was French.

She had thought so since childhood -
there was something about his movies being sub-titled,
his ****** hair and (she lowered her voice with some shame)
his trouser.

She had loved his films since watching them with her dad
and he never had mentioned the silent star's heritage.
I mean, why would he?

She looked again.  And again there was something
'continental' in his eye liner, in his gait
and in the way he gracefully pivoted
that still fitted her misconception.

But now that she thought more about it,
it made perfect sense,
of course he was not French.
He must have been German.

moustached monoku critic channels Seinfeld - no haiku for you

ANu de girl
dat made me twirl
ANd made
my moustache curl

She winked at me
I got knock-kneed
and had to
smoke some ****

It worked indeed
she puffed with me
then we both
watched this tale unfurl

Ol' Mr Rilash
the authority on panache
and once chef of Ben-Ash,
had neglected to trim his tash.
It itched and made him scratch;
Unhappy on upper lip.
A plan, a plan it hatched.

...then one time in the kitchen
on a snoozing Mr Rilash.
His tash did something brazen,
or silly or quite brash.
It pulled away and dashed
crawling through plates of mash
and hopping over paprikash
it made it to the window ledge
via the crockery left stashed.

Was it brave or was it rash,
the escaping captive tash.
Leaping and waiting for the splash,
It saw it's trajectory down below;
and landed squarely in the trash.

He comes everyday
Every morning, every night
Like the morning sun and twilight
After gulping down a glass of milk
Comes my dear Mr. Milk moustache