Maybe Gogol had a runny nose,
Imagined it running off in those Russian winters,
Or wished it did?
More likely it was snooty people
With their noses’ up in the air
Causing the barber to slice it off,
Unlike mine,
Which I’m more likely to loose
In a paper towel
(Tissues are much to flimsy.)
I’d throw away the towel,
and my nose would escape.
It would fail trying to put on aristocratic airs,
Being more a grubby Aqualung,
Living on the streets.
I would not have to chase it down.
My nose would come crawling back,
Trailing its slime,
Begging readmittance to my face.
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