How the **** did you get out of the fanzone so quickly....
That doesn't happen...
You like skipped the friendzone so quick...
God...
Come here you,
Get back to bed...

It was a restless night denuded of sleep
So since it was warm and windless
I hit the streets

Walking under ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss
My path inevitably led to where
Everything was at a complete loss

Crescent Moon Memorial Cemetery
For the dead
Where all lie below earthly care
Was where my feet had somehow led

Row upon row of forgotten names
In all of their endeavors
Have been eased of their earthly pains

And now as I trudged by at a quarter to three
A low chorus and chords of music
Through the mists came floating to me

It startled and intrigued
What now is this ?
So I had to go see for myself
And I silently crept to where came the origins of bliss

In a circle of bench seats and monument stones
The strangest thing I saw , that of the unborn
Ghosts and skeletons playing with bones and singing in moans

A see through piano , trombone , bass , saxophone and a silver cornet
And one wailing guitar completed the set

On the translucent petal bass drum
Was the name of the ethereal band
And to a catchy tune I began to hum

Crescent Moon Memorial Buried Blues Band
The epitaph on the vaporous drum stated
And I soon found myself a loyal fan

What seem like a lifetime they continued to play
Quaint rthyms and lyrics now made my day . . . and night !
As the sounds drifted across the river out onto the bay

But far off I heard the mornings ****'s call
Then phiff . . . vanished all into the fog
Not a trace as if covered by an invisible pall

And then a ray caught the gleam in my eye
And I knew that when the time comes
Here's where I want to be placed after I die

waiting, enter, music
enter, music, fans
music, fans, dance
fans, dance, mosh
dance, mosh, break
mosh, break, band
break, band, leave

End of November and Christmas is nearly here
It's time for families far and near
presents at the base of the tree
and children shouting what's for me
Brass bands playing round the street
gives me goosebumps tapping to the beat
Snow is falling all around and the fire is burning bright
and lights shine down on my inner soul it just feels really right
What could be better than what I have got
I've had a crap year but it's Christmas so what!
Everything is going really well
and I'm going to ring the Christmas Bell

Get me down to the local band stand
traditional and modern grand
Cornets, Euphoniums and tuba's in tune
I love the sight I'm so immune
from the pits of Yorkshire and round the globe
Scores resounding from Adobe
The Conductor's baton keeps the beat
and if its wrong they stamp there feet
from amateur to championship
all you have is brass to lip
contests regional every year
and music reading not play by ear!

I've found a poet
Who sings
A boy
Who feels
And let's his voice
Shake in songs
About airplanes crashing
Who tells me
He loves me
Very very very very much
And-
Happy Birthday darlin'

He has dark hair
And walks on a bridge
To watch a
Bowl of oranges
Float away.

The Calendar Hung Itself-
He says.
He'll visit the band in the morning.

God he strums smiling-
In pain
Brimming with paint-
What a waste-
A stepping stone on a path.

Oh Abbey Road
who has walked your heart
singing from way back then
only the most famous of all
only to end with Let It Be
and please Just Imagine in 1969...

John, you wouldn't have many years left
your birthday came and we always loved
Paul, you will continue to sing your heart
and fly with Wings
Ringo, Sweet Sixteen, Your beautiful
and your mine
George singing to your SWEET LORD ...

We miss you John, its your birthday
your words are still magic, as we follow
you down Abbey Lane....although a bullet
took you away that FATEFUL day
December 8, 1980.

It left holes in our hearts
The torture, the publicity and Beatle mania'
took a toll, your life had an aura, you would come
on and perform a miracle just one last time
as we follow you down Abbey Lane and the Yoga
acid trip ...

Happy Birthday dear John
you are sooooo missed .

Debbie

The clock strikes 3:30 and the pit behind the school opens.
We feast on the smell of burning skin and sunscreen.
There is chaos as instruments are strewn across the back room,
No exits and the doors are blocked.
My eyes slide past his but I'm too burned out to care.
Freshmen are the worst,
Insisting on acting as if
They are four year olds.
Not a second late, for Whit is never late.
I have lost feeling in my legs
Still I have perfect
Technique just as he does. Water.
Water does not have an existence in this world.
Heat and sun have taken over.
Our tuba players have given up,
There they lay down in the burning
Grass. He never complains.
As I'm close to my breaking point,
Air no longer passes my
Lips and not one note escapes my keys.
The perfect string of notes and rhythm
Sound from my left. He never missed
A note.
March it back,
March it back,
March it back sixteen counts.
An endless routine.
Opening set.
These single words are bitter sweet.
In ten minutes I am free to go home
And write poetry about him.