He talks about sport and the weather,
in the pub, where he spends every night.
With his eyes slightly too close together,
and his slightly-below-average height.
He’s never changed out of his trainers –
the same jumper, the same pair of jeans;
most decisions in life are no-brainers
which is why he left school at sixteen.
His missus was once quite the stunner,
says Dave, with a small smile of pride.
But he claims he wished he’d done a runner
now he’s seen the aged tits of his bride.
His nails are all cigarette yellows
(he could never be bothered to scrub).
He’s the blandest of jolly-good-fellows,
but he’s everyone’s mate in the pub.
He’s never been too closely shaven;
says the birds dig a bloke with a beard.
But his daughter’s renamed herself “Raven”,
and a bird with a bird’s name’s just weird.
Oh, he claims he’s had girlfriends aplenty,
and he’s had to resist an affair;
but the last time he pulled he was twenty,
when he still had a head full of hair.
And his beer belly’s only got bigger
since he stopped coaching Tim’s football club.
He’s a constant, unthreatening figure;
good old Dave, always there, in the pub.
He just found out his son’s homosexual
and it’s torn at the strings of his heart,
‘cause poor Dave’s by no means intellectual
so he thinks it’s a fail on his part.
So he’s begging for overtime working;
he avoids going home like the plague.
When the pub’s closed, he waits outside, lurking,
with a look on his face rather vague.
Now he’s missed both his children’s last birthdays,
and his wife eats ice cream by the tub.
“Never mind. C’est la vie. I’ve had worse days,”
mumbles Dave, quite alone, in the pub.