Thoughts from my sick bed

Hair grows profusely on my chin,
But not so much on the top,
Up there it’s getting sort of thin,
Yet my beard will never stop,
If I turned my head upside down,
My hair’d be all the rave,
And the thinning top nearer the ground,
Means soon I wouldn’t have to shave.

Words, words, glorious words! Give me all of your words!

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