Thursday, 18 September 2008

Nothing is but what is not it is is not, isn't it?

A whisper in the darkness

A scrabble for the light

And on it came and there I saw

A Honda motorbike.


"Why this?" said I

In mid-sleep drear

But came there no reply.

And all at once, and once and all

I thought I might just die.


For the motorbike

It revved and reared

It drove at me with fury!

For from within my sheets I peered

And saw the driver - Ian Dury!


"Polio has done its worst,"

He said with ghostly anguish,

"And now I come to mow you down

Unless unto me you furnish


A silver baton

Light as air

Tempestuous as thunder."

And I knew precisely what he meant:


A stick I stole at seventeen

Made out of astral beauty

Capable of cosmic sounds,

Most treasured of my booty.


"Wait, please wait, you spastic prick!"

I hollered in the darkness

And held aloft the rhythm stick

From the depths of my pyjamas.


And Ian Dury quickly up

And snatched my prize possession

And off he went in dark and mist

To join the ghost procession.