All These Musicians
Posted: Tue Nov 06, 2012 10:18 am
Just got back from the Maldon Folk Festival...
All These Musicians
© Stephen Whiteside 06.11.2012
All these musicians who don't drive a car,
Who hitch all their hopes to a tremulous star,
Who travel in taxis and buses and trains,
And scramble for cover whenever it rains;
Who walk the mean streets with guitars on their backs,
And spend seven days in the same pair of daks,
Who eat out of tins with a greasy old spoon,
Who sleep in the sunshine and howl at the moon;
All these musicians who drift off on dope,
Who reckon without it they never could cope,
Who smoke skinny rollies and guzzle on grog,
And snuggle to sleep by a half starving dog;
Who stay up all night in a roughly hewn ring,
And banter and jiggle and giggle and sing,
Who jam until dawn "for the festival's sake",
And keep weary poets (like this one...) awake;
All these musicians who whinge the next day
That they're bleary and weary and struggling to play,
While poets (like this one...) are already done
With their turn in the limelight (and wasn't it fun?);
Who tear down their tents and then softly creep off
With a sniff and a sneeze and a wheeze and a cough,
With a jumble of litter strewn wide in their wake,
Bohemians, all, "for the festival's sake";
Life is a series of awkward positions;
Where would we be without "all these musicians"...?
All These Musicians
© Stephen Whiteside 06.11.2012
All these musicians who don't drive a car,
Who hitch all their hopes to a tremulous star,
Who travel in taxis and buses and trains,
And scramble for cover whenever it rains;
Who walk the mean streets with guitars on their backs,
And spend seven days in the same pair of daks,
Who eat out of tins with a greasy old spoon,
Who sleep in the sunshine and howl at the moon;
All these musicians who drift off on dope,
Who reckon without it they never could cope,
Who smoke skinny rollies and guzzle on grog,
And snuggle to sleep by a half starving dog;
Who stay up all night in a roughly hewn ring,
And banter and jiggle and giggle and sing,
Who jam until dawn "for the festival's sake",
And keep weary poets (like this one...) awake;
All these musicians who whinge the next day
That they're bleary and weary and struggling to play,
While poets (like this one...) are already done
With their turn in the limelight (and wasn't it fun?);
Who tear down their tents and then softly creep off
With a sniff and a sneeze and a wheeze and a cough,
With a jumble of litter strewn wide in their wake,
Bohemians, all, "for the festival's sake";
Life is a series of awkward positions;
Where would we be without "all these musicians"...?