Encore; encore no more?

  

Well, I warned you that this might be it
and now the being it is here. 
Plymouth, Hull, and Hammersmith: 
harvesting my last, I fear.
So scrape my cells into a Petri dish,
grow me a culture
or a very last wish.
Like Shelley and Keats, Beckett or Joyce
I leave you an echo of my succulent voice.

So it’s encore; encore no more.
I will never sing again on Albion’s shore.
This homecoming queen is coming home
no more; no more encore…

From Saddleworth down to the Lads’ Club door,
interesting times we lived – for sure.
Sadly now
there’s no interest at all
in my own Strange ways
or my clarion call.
A prophet unheard in his native town.
No profit to be had
so the Labels turned me down.
There may be a light that never goes out
but the pain-striped suits gave their bleakest shout.

And it’s encore; encore no more
I will never sing again on Albion’s shore
This homecoming king is coming home
no more; no more encore…

You were lost in space.
You were lost at sea.
The Rubber Ring I gave you
I gave you from me.
You were lost in space.
You were lost at sea.
Your flotation device
was always me.

But now it’s encore; encore no more
I will never sing again on Albion’s shore
This King’s Road prince is coming home
no more; no more encore.



Disclaimer:  

Apologies for this blog, so embarrassingly different that I needed a new ‘Sundries’ page for it. My only excuse is that, as we all know, boys never really grow up. We are forever singing in our hearts the songs of a long adolescence. Many of the songs still stuck in my head were put there by Stephen Patrick Morrissey and played there by The Smiths.  

For reasons that I find impossible to explain, despite living in Manchester for the entire time the group existed, and subsequently getting to know one of the band and his family, I never actually saw The Smiths live. So when my brother-in-law offered me a ticket for what Morrissey recently announced would probably be his last ever gigs in the UK, I bit his hand off.  

Once we’d staunched the flow of blood, I rang for the ambulance. Sitting for hours in A&E with him, I couldn’t help stitching together these lines. All they need now is for Johnny Marr to frame them in a catchy riff, Mike and Andy to drive some relentless rhythm through them, and of course for Morrissey to replace them with some words of his own that tell us how he really feels. Job done.  

And if Morrissey is dismayed by the lack of record company interest in his work, I’d advise him to announce a Smiths’ 30th Anniversary Strangeways Here Come Back Again Tour and see what happens then! You know it makes sense.  

Pics: Morrissey from the MozPit, Hammersmith, September 2015

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About dp40days

A senior leader in Further and Higher Education, now based in Moray (pronounced "Murray") on the coast of the Scottish Highlands. (I know, I love paradox). We have more sunshine and less rain each year than my previous home in Manchester, and our football team is doing better too! You can find me on Twitter as @DP40days. Blogs so far have either been about FE, or about a Trans-Siberian Journey to Japan that I took last year. Fáilte romhat!
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