I heard a cautious plucking Of a rubber-banded string, And a nervous, tuneless whistle, And a doorbell’s lonely ring. While the birds were oddly quiet Till a starling risked a ping, And a chorus of the grazing ewes replied.
As note by chord by tonic, So the melodies returned – For all we needed silence, They cannot, will not be spurned. We’ve lost them many times before, But somehow never learned – On the day beyond The day the music died.
I heard the constant background hum Change key, To slowly raise the dead – From tinnitus to the thrum of industry, In C, Inside my head. From the tapping of the plumbing To the footsteps that I tread, Even my heartbeat was a drum Which would not be denied.
Where are all the protest songs ? Where is all the agit-pop to tell us ev’rything is wrong ? I hear they’re out there, chanting still – But somehow never reach me, and they prob’ly never will.
Where are all the protest songs ? I mean, I know that pop has always Been obsessed with love and lovers. It’s rare than politics belongs Beside the sugar on the airwaves, Saving all its love for brothers.
They try to set the world to right, But only in a quiet corner of the dial, late at night, And fight-the-power-chords and tears Are never crossing-over into unsuspecting teenage ears.
Best to use the tools you find By marching to a funky beat And tapping into pop’s romance – For if you want to move the mind, Then first you move the feet, By making earworms of your chants.
Sing it if you want to, Cos I cannot stop you. Pay me my royalties, Do with it as you please. For once a song is out there, Then it’s out there for ev’ryone – It’s out there for evermore, They’re all out there together. Until I’m dead for three score ten And then it’s all for free forever. But until that day, If the author gets their pay, Then the artist gets to sing away. Permission isn’t theirs to grant, And nobody tells anyone they can’t.
This is the time of the viral star: Of the unintended baritones, Of sudden blasts on nose trombones, And the throaty roar of bass catarrh ! The husky whisper strains with grief To the beat of mints against the teeth.
Out of work and out of dole, While high on blues and low on soul. And all the songs we’d ever hear Were old, and theirs, and insincere. We hung around in aimless bands To stop us feeling suicidal, But the Devil makes work for idle hands – And boy, were our hands idle !
So we are why the faithful flocks Must mumble hymns while Satan rocks ! We’re drowning-out the choirs of Heaven With three-chord worship at 11. His music fills a hole in us, It hugs our pockmarked skin – If God gave rock & roll to us, Then Satan plugged us in.
You often speak of they and them, So, so shall I. You see, I’m firmly one of them Whom you decry as sheep or swine Who are too careless with their gaze. But Don, I also use that phrase, I also have my thems and theys – And you are one of mine.
For you, like they, have ordered me To venerate your saints: Picasso, Rothko, and Matisse – Apostles in their paints. Never must my adulation cease Upon your feted clutch – But who’s the Zeus of all these gods ? Of course, your martyred Dutch !
I know, I know, it’s treason, But I still think that depression, Though it’s pretty good a-reason Is a really bad excuse For his whingey self-obsession, And his self-harming abuse, And for his total lack of wit, And being such an all-round shit.
But what’s the use ? You won’t agree. And truth to tell, that was obtuse of me – Both me and him are far more complicated Than we either you or I have stated. And anyway, let’s judge the work and not the man – Who cares if he’s a relic or a brash young Turk ? Except you’re doing all you can To make the man the work.
So here I stand – a heretic – A unbowed Philistine and hick. For Don, though I can listen fine, I’ll never like the tune he played. Ironic’ly, I quite like yours – A modern hymn to hector and persuade. I guess that Vincent makes you happy, And for that, I’m happy too. Just never try to set me free.
To those of us who cannot sing, The songs will always taunt. To those of us without the swing, Who haven’t got a note to bring – The muted melodies still haunt Each dried-up vocal spring. To those of us who cannot sing, The songs will always taunt.
Making music – that’s the thing ! A flourish and a flaunt. But we who cannot even wring A reedy rasp or piping ping Are ever banished from their jaunt, With not a hook to sling. To those of us who cannot sing, The songs will always taunt.
Fiddlers three may please the king, Or even John of Gaunt – For who can let the doldrums cling When songs are rousing on the wing ? They chirp away so nonchalant, Unknowing how they sting. To those of us who cannot sing, The songs will always taunt.
Rhyming Couplets 