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.