One more trot around the interview circuit
Before the glue factory beckons this old war horse.
I laugh at the flaccid joking questions,
All smiles, bad make up
And cracked actor remembrances.
I play two songs,
The posing audience claps off the beat,
They fade out the solo to sell detergent and beer
And then I’m on the sofa,
Like a passive pooch being offered a biscuit.
My agent is in heaven the next day,
The tour has sold out,
Ten nights at Wembley Stadium
Gone in 90 seconds,
But I cannot look myself in the mirror
And swallow ninety six Ibuprofen before the first encore.
Nine songs in the top ten as they put me in the ground.