The Sorrows of The Mediocre

Poor poor Ralphie was a man
Who spent his life an also-ran
And though he tried with all his might
The ‘almost perfect but not quite’
Was heard as a nonstop refrain
And soon to be his sad life’s bane

School passed by predictably
With his average solid B
Involved in sports but to his nettle
His room adorned with silver medals
He never made the football team
Or dated the homecoming queen

He settled with a decent gal
But thought her more a sort of pal
Though long of leg and slim of waist
Just something off about her face
And so she joined him for the ride
And she too bridesmaid never bride

And Ralph he wrote though not the best
He cursed his marginal success
At wisdom some found somewhat sage
Though buried on an obscure page
But all that found it surely would
Agree that it was ‘pretty good’

And so with all his life to shoulder
The sorrows of the mediocre
He found himself long in the tooth
And simply figured what’s the use
“I never will find fame or wealth
I might as well just off myself

Perhaps when they call me ‘the late’
These silly fools will think I’m great”
And so after a few events
Which ended up as failed attempts
Ralphie took his final bow
Though none really remember how

But as he went heavenward soaring
Happy to see the whole world mourning
In aftermath of his sad death
To heaven’s gate with arms outstretched
Angels with their golden books
Gazed towards him with beatific looks

But as he reached St. Peter’s side
They merely told him step aside
And so he became quite downhearted
When he saw why those gates parted
He would have waited if he’d known he’d
Die on the same day as Bowie.

'If you couldn't get into clubs, what makes you think you can get in here?'

‘If you couldn’t get into clubs, what makes you think you can get in here?’

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