I woke with a fright, something wasn’t alright

I ran to the door and there on the floor

Was Mario’s lost mustache

It jumped and it jabbed to the door so I grabbed the shovel I keep in my sash.

I sprayed some febreeze, the Stache, dying with ease, was no match for the spade it met with a crash, and after I’d tooled a small coffin and ruled that some words were now due for the foolish, murderous, awfully sinister, horribly rancid turd monster of a mustache, I said would I could and with feet made of wood, I stumbled upstairs to my bed.