He was bland. Few knew him well.
He never had a lot to tell.
He blushed when someone came too close;
he'd wipe his brow or blow his nose.
At parties he would stand alone
and, when approached, he'd turn to stone,
he'd clench his teeth, his jaw, his glass;
he never dared to make a pass.
He never married, bred no young;
he did not woo with golden tongue;
with girls he wouldn't risk a chat,
they might think he was pale and flat.
His colleagues guess he worked quite hard;
his neighbors liked his spotless yard,
their kids could always find their ball;
his aunt enjoyed his Christmas call.
While waiting for his train one day,
the papers say, he passed away;
quite what went wrong no one can tell,
his pastor says he slipped and fell.