A poem to the average man.
Averageman, the masked pretender,
strides from fair to not quite good enough,
intervenes a little early
or nowhere near on time,
almost saves the day
when all are safe at home,
attends appointed rendezvous
without others being informed,
stumbles, trips and over reaches,
slips and falls from heights,
his eye fixéd upon the ball
when others play with pucks.
‘Twould be easy now to rhyme with “sucks”
but I’m here to praise our Caesar.
His age is thirty-four point four,
he’s married with two kids,
sleeps seven hours, or would,
if crime would sleep as well.
He’s five foot nine,
weighs one seven five,
past his prime, he yet believes
there’s still life in the average man,
and, if only events would fall in line,
he’d be the hero, save the world.
Do not despise the Averageman;
he’s doing his best though getting it wrong
and, when coincidence or fate decrees,
he’ll be in the right place or close enough,
might even be in time to help,
conceivably be the straw that breaks
the back of evil machinations.
Oh, Averageman, the very fount
of common sense and good intent,
be forever our daily mean,
the solid bedrock ‘neath our feet
that keeps our world together.