He whistles, hums and talks a lot.
He spent a fortnight as a Goth,
But he got bored of keeping quiet
And looking like a moonless night.

So he became a punk and let
His feelings out. The world was wet
With spit that came out with his words,
The tiny airborne jelly birds

That stung like jelly fish in seas,
Without the style of bumble bees.
His words alone would sting the minds
That hid behind closed doors and blinds.

He was there to shout the truth
Through megaphones, and use his boot
To smash the doors and trash the place,
Releasing vicious words that chase

All the pet beliefs away
From fireside cushions where they lay,
Leaving just the truth instead,
Removing decor from each head.

But he got bored of shouting things
At hapless, helpless, harmless dings,
And calling people 'dings' and 'twats',
And seeing them as pigs or rats.

So he became a hippy then,
And felt love for his fellow men,
And women too -- he loved each one.
The hippy life was much more fun

Than being a hate-filled punk or Goth,
Unhappy with his meagre lot.
In hippy clothes he danced on hills,
Dispensing with life's pointless frills.

But when the frills were cast away
There wasn't much to do or say.
He got tired of dancing and
Writing 'love' on his left hand.

He wanted to write 'hate' instead
In big black letters on his head.
He left the happy hippy herd
And took up living as a nerd.

He didn't like being mocked each day.
The jelly birds came out to play.
His fellow nerds enjoyed the lack
Of fun and sun and song and craic.

He tried to live without a creed.
At last he felt his mind was freed
To feed his mouth with words that bite.
They loved to growl and bark at night.

Or words that flew like butterflies
And brought a sparkling glint to eyes.
He fought with friends and bought them drinks,
With fireworks every time he thinks.

Every day's a small explosion.
His gift horses are all Trojan.
He's free to talk to trees and plants
And leave them in a state of trance.

His new moustache is much admired
By those whose fashion is inspired
By styles preceding World War Two
And those who like to sniff the glue

That holds their fake moustache in place
In the garden on their face.
But his is real. To help it grow
He had to scare away a crow.

He's started doing magic tricks.
He's formed a band called Truthabix.
They play his twenty-minute songs
On drums and tins and saws and gongs.

He applauds and takes a bow.
He's his own role model now.
A tall male riddle dressed in red,
In harmony with his own head.