A Most Average Man

No one was more average than Stan.
He was a most average man.

He had the average number of brothers
And the average number of wives,
He came from the average number of mothers
And he’d lived the average number of lives.

He owned the average number of houses
And the average number of cars
He’d killed an average number of mouses,
Had fights in the average number of bars.

He’d slept the average number of hours,
Worn the average number of flares,
He’d had the average number of showers
To cover up his average number of affairs.

He’d committed the average number of murders,
Swatted the average number of flies,
Eaten the average number of burgers
Accompanied by the average number of fries.

He had the average number of fingers
In the average number of pies,
Faced the average number of out-swingers
And played the average number of off-drives.

He’d swum the average number of lengths
In the average number of pools,
And each average April the first, he’d fall
Victim to the average number of fools.

He’d collected the average number of giros
And drunk the average number of jeroboams,
Bought and mislaid the average number of biros
To write the average number of average poems.

No one was more average than Stan,
He was a most average man.
The meanest of the mean.
The most medium of the median.
A modish master of mediocrity.

He was very unique in that respect.

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