for the show were all sold out,
crowd since Woodstock – so they said,
I tried to
still the nagging twinge of doubt
thoughts of failure from my head.
roadies set up all our gear,
the strings and checked the sound as well,
I tried my
microphone – so crisp and clear,
rang out just like a mission bell.
watched as sound men tweaked his kit,
cymbals, double bass and triple snare,
like it was dying to be hit,
cowbells, chimes and tom toms everywhere.
show guru turned up – what a bloke,
the stage with sixty types of light,
cut like scimitars through smoke,
would get its money’s worth tonight.
grabbed the lead guitar and strummed,
was awesome – loud as you can get,
as stacks of
speakers barked and slave amps hummed,
chief then declared that we were set.
I had my
pick of groupies – gorgeous chicks,
against a backstage wall,
down the choice to five or six,
choose one, so I had them all.
I ran on
stage, a new wave teenage Lord,
went ape and screamed like anything,
player crashed a power chord,
I opened up
my mouth, began to sing.
played a minute – then they booed,
hoodlums climbed the left side speaker stack,
screaming insults, throwing food,
and led a
rolling chant of “Money Back!”
deserted us – the bums,
went mad – we ran in fear,
our new guitars and trashed the drums,
drank our special stock of beer.
in a backstage cubbyhole,
a crucial lesson on that day:
to be a big
success in rock and roll
get on stage –learn how to play!
more of my
FUNNY POEMS here