Not Fade Away
Slim and lithe and quick of hip,
You thought it was all over now,
You thought the last time of his lip
Had been and gone, his furrowed brow
A relic, over every hill,
Like monochrome and vaudeville.
But now he flounces out onstage,
Calls ‘start me up’. He’s jumping jack,
Shows not a hint of half his age,
And doesn’t paint the picture black:
Hard not, when watching Glasto’s revels,
To sympathise with these old devils.
How did he stay so fit, so slim,
Satanic majesty intact,
Invigorated, full of vim,
Brown sugar-rich, and sweet in fact:
As always, slightly fey. He may be.
But have you seen his mother, baby?
Of course he should be wrecked or dead,
His old red rooster impotent,
Unable to get out of bed,
Far less perform at this event.
Against the odds and doc’s advice,
Here’s Brucie. Nice to see you. Nice.
Click here for a Telegraph story
Click here for Bill’s New Statesman project