David was there.
He was in my dream.
Alive.
On the top stair.
A portrait in flesh.
Screwed down hair.
Wonky teeth.
One green eye, octarine
Blue beneath.
Armed with a stolen cricket bat.
And the Wisden Almanac.
Asked me to trade
My tenor sax.
For a sequined glitter gown,
Pair of glam stacks.
But it’s a conversation piece
(Although I can’t play the damned thing)
So I said:
‘No thanks’.
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