It’s not exactly that he had no face
But he lacked any hue or insistence of race,
With any distinction of God’s fickle grace,
Like a bland empty jar, a flowerless vase.
He had no tattoos, fancy clothing, or scars,
He drove a Ford Escort, or one of such cars,
He’d rarely be seen galavanting in bars,
But instead might be found gazing up at the stars.
He had smallish lips, his ears were just right,
His expression was one of mild shock, or fright,
He lacked any aura, and was rarely in sight,
But if asked, would respond “Oh, I’m alright.”
It was an ordeal to pick him from a crowd,
For he’d never be there, it was far too loud,
He dwelled by himself, ensconced in a shroud,
He was a gray man and of this he was proud.
He was neither a follower nor a leader,
Nor was he a deplored bottom-feeder,
But his life did not wane, subside or peter,
He found purpose in novels and was a great reader.
As for ladies, well that point is moot.
He had none, didn’t want none to boot.
To him, a girls curls were not all that cute,
They might as well’ve been a fistful of soot.
He lived like all do, slowly ambling along,
But unlike the rest, felt no need to belong,
Would rarely be found in humanity’s throng,
Or chant, fist raised in the air, humanity’s song.