Dave is proud of his bronze tan,
His golden hair and his silver van.
It carries him from place to place.
He keeps it cleaner than his face.

His chat-up lines make women weak,
So much so they cannot speak,
But they can puke. Dave says 'cheers'.
Their eyes can leak a lot of tears

That leave mascara stains on cheeks.
If they had stayed awake for weeks
They couldn't look as bad as this.
They feel the opposite of bliss.

Instinct helps them find the bar.
They couldn't tell you where they are.
They only know they hate this place.
With lipstick smeared across their face,

This completes the sad clown look.
Their plans to write a childrens' book
Start to seem like pointless dreams.
All ambitions, plans and schemes

Appear as just a waste of time.
They'll always be a clown or mime,
Acting out life's main events
Within the confines of a fence,

A fence that only they can see.
They'll never feel remotely free.
Their eyes are pools of deep despair.
They'll find a biscuit in their hair.

The more Dave talks, the more they cry.
Their well of tears will not run dry.
Their face illuminates their plight,
And Dave thinks 'It's my lucky night'.