Life As Brown

I never wanted a car so brown
yet here I am driving one.
Perhaps it's all that I deserve.
Shall I explain?

(cue mélange of readers' voices:)
Reader #1: Yes please!
Reader #2: Yeah, whatever. I don't care...
Reader #3: Who IS this funt?

I was born standing up.
An A-hole in blue jeans.
An unfeeling meat machine.
While the cool kids glew with Ready Brek,
I had a flippin' Weetabix for a head
and a face drawn on with felt tip pens.
I dreamt of being suave like Mr Benn.

Turgid school days
passed in a grey haze,
snoozing while smartyboots got given prizes,
running away from balls of all shapes and sizes.
From head teacher to head boy, I treated them with scorn.
They sent me to a trick cyclist, oh what a yawn.

They subjected me to tests
(I believe they called them "GCSEs").
They were a bunch of perfect pests
until we freaks brought them to their knees.
I can still hear our rallying cry:
"Thunder, Thunder, THUNDERTWATS!"

Out upon the dating scene,
I found the desired non-male equivalent (eek!).
Everything was peaceful and serene
when we were out together, dancing geek-to-geek.

But it wasn't meant to be.
One winter's day in July she left me,
standing with my hands on my horse's hips,
for a boy with a handsome face and a real pair of lips.

Now I'm a maungy middle-aged mess.
I'm a failed farceur, frankly fading fast.
God rolled ze dice.
They got lodged up me arse.

B.R. 13/08/2014