His path to grace won't be his face, I fear;
No noble brow nor Roman prow lives there.
And while his ears would sooner suit a jug,
At least they match, and balance out his mug.

What hair's his own, while fair, so lank and thin
It fails to hide the shine, or mask his chin;
A pity since his jaw needs much more thrust
To help his smile, spread 'cross his dial, win trust.

His specs so dense I can't make sense, you see,
Where he is aimed--I must suppose it's me.
I'm puzzled why he'd catch my eye; you'd think
I'd spurn away his offer of a drink...

Yet, what you see is never what you get:
Turned out to be the finest man I've met!
I took a chance and put aside my pride;
Looked past his face--and saw the grace inside.




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