So we have played at the Bishop Stortfords excellent Acoustic Club a couple of times. One of the guys there killed himself a few weeks ago, and I kind of have this poem floating round in my system thats just jumped onto the screen. Its not a polished piece of work, and it may never be finished, but as it stands its Alans funeral tomorrow (well today for those who do this thing by hour as opposed to sleep patterns), so here are the words:
--
He couldn't play the drums no more
The hands couldn't do it right
But it was more than his body
That was left paralysed.
The rhythm taken away
More than cells that died
Couldn't stick it out
Hello suicide
He didn't drink.
He didn't smoke.
But thats no protection.
Against a stroke.
Bad things
Bad things
Bad things
can happen to
Good folk.
