Dim wit

Somewhat eccentric 

Likes the eclectic 

Not the bravest of the bunch 

There if you need him 

Don't have to feed him 

He  even buys you lunch 

Off on a daydream

Makes his wife scream 

She is the silent type 

Lives on chances

In all his romances 

Never needs to fight 

The message is clear 

He is not really here 

Running around in his head 

I am writing a song dear 

Nothing is wrong dear 

It's about the quick and the dead 

He could whistle a tune 

With the cresent moon 

Imagine what would be said 

Life can't be sweeter 

Ticking no meter 

Always looking for cues 

That is his lot

Gave what he got

The dim witted tool 

Some think him insane 

When he tells them plain 

He hasn't lost the plot 

The message not clear 

Some cheered 

Some jeered 

He must be smoking pot!