The Ballad of Brian the Baghead

[Mr Brightside]

In the yard of the school, Brian felt quite the fool.
First day as the new kid; he felt so uncool.
As he looked all around at the lads and the lasses,
He wished very much to be part of the masses.

He took a few steps, through the gaggle and noise,
And saw a group that looked groovy; a gang of four boys.
They were cool-looking chaps; their shirts were untucked,
And their ties were worn loose like they couldn't be fucked.

So he untucked his shirt and he loosened his knot.
His mouth had gone dry and he felt rather hot.
'Hey, fellas,' he said, all nervous and shy.
'Do you think you have room for just one more guy?'

The foursome turned round and they spoke in hushed voices.
This ritual, thought Bri, must be how they make choices.
He waited with nerves, like an interviewee.
Hurry up, Brian thought, or I'll shit or I'll pee.

The foursome turned round to face Brian the loner.
'If you want in,' said one boy, 'you must now be a stoner.'

'A stoner?' cried Brian. 'A puffer? A pothead?'
The words filled him up with a strong sense of dread.
But if he said no, for the rest of his days,
He'd be moping around in a sad lonely haze.

'I'll do it,' said Brian. 'I'll suck on a reefer.'
And one of the boys, whose first name was Kiefer,
Said, 'Come on, let's go to the back of the gym.'
So the newfound quintet skedaddled with vim.

Then Kiefer pulled out a ginormous great spliff.
He lit it and puffed it and it gave off a whiff
That was sweet and sickly, a mostly strange scent, it was.
Brian leaned in and sniffed the pong up his snozz.

They passed it around, each taking a drag
Of the magical wonderful sweet funny fag.
Soon the five lads were as high as a kite.
They were giggly and giddy and their heads all felt light.

For the rest of their school lives they smoked Mary Jane,
Which caused Brian's grades to go on the wane.
Where once he would pass with an A or a B,
He now scraped along with a C or a D.

His parents would ask him just what was the matter,
But Brian cared not for their lame grown-up chatter.
When they droned and they moaned, he'd tell them, 'So long',
And he'd go to his bedroom and suck from his bong.

But he scored enough Cs as he still had some knowledge,
And this meant that Brian could get into to college.
None of his pals could join him, however.
They failed with Fs; they weren't at all clever.

So when college commenced, he was all on his tod,
He ate by himself did the sad sorry sod.
As he looked at the others who munched with their muckers,
He moped and he muttered, 'Those smug motherfuckers.'

He then eyed a poster affixed to the wall.
A party that night in the nearby town hall!
The poster informed that it started at eight.
Trussed in his glad-rags, he'd scout for a mate.

At six o'clock sharp, he rolled into the party,
And found that the group were all so arty-farty.
An hour passed by; Brian went to the bogs,
Where a sound that was like that of two sniffer dogs
Came out from the cubicle right at the end.
At the door Brian stood. Could he now make a friend?

He rapped the door twice and said, 'Okay in there?'
The door then creaked open; inside was a pair.
In their hands they held banknotes rolled into a tube.
Just what were they doing inside of this cube?

Then Brian noticed the white on their honkers.
One said, 'Want a line?' Brian said, 'This is bonkers!
Snort up a line, lads? I'm really not sure.
Though puffing on weed is becoming a bore.'

The duo stood firm and said, 'To be our recruit,
Take a line up your snout or we'll give you the boot.'
Not wanting the loneliness next day at lunch,
Brian took a rolled banknote and stooped to a hunch.
The lines on the cistern went right up his nose,
Which sent a nice glow from his head to his toes.

From then on, each day, he and his buddies
Would get high on coke and not do any studies.
His grades turned to shit, he lost interest in school.
He signed on the dole and he thought it was cool
To sit on his arse and snort mountains of snow,
But his parents were miffed, so they told him to go.

He packed all his bags and moved in with a mate,
But his drug-taking worsened; it wouldn't abate.
He spent all his money on drugs, never rent.
His mate kicked him out, so he slept in a tent.
The fool kept on sniffing; it soon took its toll.
Where his septum once was, there was now just a hole.

One signing-on day, he went for a walk,
And met a guy in an alley; they started to talk.
'Want some of this?' said the guy, holding up a small bag.
Inside was a syringe and an ounce of pure skag.

'Horse!?' cried out Brian. 'Smack? Dope? Brown sugar?'
'That's right,' said the guy. 'Do you want it, you bugger?'

Fed up with cocaine, Brian gave him some cash,
And he went to his tent, and as quick as a flash
He'd heated a spoonful and filled up a syringe.
He stuck in the needle; the pain made him cringe.

But then, as the tar made its way through his veins,
A warm fuzzy feeling took away all his pains.
Chasing the dragon was his new favourite thing.
It felt better than orgasm; cum shot from his ding.

And so with each fortnightly benefit sum,
He'd splash cash on hash and then sit on his bum.
And he'd do nowt at all; he'd just stay in the tent,
Never washing his body, which meant germs could ferment.

And ferment they did, and so badly so
That a new breed of fungus started to grow.
It grew from his pits and under his ball-sack.
It grew from his toes and also his arse crack.

And without a regular dental routine,
His teeth first turned yellow and then they turned green.
Then the teeth all came loose and dropped out one by one,
Until one day he found that his gnashers were gone.

Then finally his mate held his nose when he smelled
A god-awful odour from where Brian dwelled.
When Brian signed on, his mate went in the yard,
Struck a match and declared, 'This tent here must be charred.'

When Brian came back with his new bag of hash,
Where his tent had once stood was a pile of ash.
Standing next to the cinders, his mate flicked the Vs.
'Fuck right off,' he said. 'And close the gate will you, please?'

He was out on the streets, but worse was in store.
The next signing-on day, the clerk said, 'No more.'
And so he was forced after such an infliction,
To give gumjobs to strangers to fund his addiction.
But a tramp's oral skills are not much in demand,
And the once-scorching flame of his drug-use was fanned.

In need of a high, he stalked a woman one night;
A tipsy young lass with an arse that looked tight.
Brian followed her into a desolate park.
It was just he and her all alone in the dark.
He grabbed her and lifted her very short skirt,
Pulled down her knickers and said, 'This won't hurt.'

And it didn't hurt, actually. Want to know why?
Because when Brian the pervert unzipped his fly
Out popped a small cock that was floppy, like dough.
Months of addiction had killed his libido.

He let the girl go, and she laughed at his dick,
And she walloped his balls and she called him a prick.
Brian sat down on the cold ground below,
And thought of that school day from so long ago.
The day he'd been offered that horrible weed.
He wished he'd said no; how he wished that indeed.

So the next time you happen to stroll through the city,
You'll see a bloke on the floor that looks rather shitty.
Sunken cheeks and deep wrinkles; no teeth in his head,
Thinning hair, awful stench, and his eyes - they look dead.
He'll ask for some change in a low mumbled voice,
And you might toss him some coins if you want to - your choice.
And that tattered old tramp with that big beard of his,
Well, get a load of this - that's Brian, that is.