Ex-Monkee Peter Tork has gone and accompanied the Grim Reaper,
He’s hoping he can wangle an opening with St. Peter the Gatekeeper,
For old bandmates Dolenz and Nesmith this is a sad day,
Out on the unending Nostalgia Tour, still plugging away,
No chance of a trio now Pete’s on the last train to Clarkesville;
Now there’s only Micky and Mike left behind to half fill the bill.
(This came out a lot snarkier than intended, I don’t know why. Perhaps I’m a bit over too many groups/parts of groups/second cousins twice removed of groups still on the gravy train. (A sad day for Pete and fun music, in truth.)
In the middle of the night, when you get that call
You know, the blackness can get darker, after all,
There’s nothing left to do
But step outside to think it through,
You find your mind and time stand terribly still
As you follow your feet on the climb up Calton Hill.
Look to the sky and see, in the unfathomable black
A myriad of stars, a galaxy blinking- and winking back,
And there’s nothing you can do
But gaze up to see the night through,
To wait and watch till in the east, black turns to grey
As slowly, ever slowly, the light dawns on a new day.
He sang songs about proper mothers and Rolling Stone covers
And keeping his beautiful woman away from wannabe lovers,
But Ray, lay down the cowboy hat, the eye patch and say ‘see ya later’
To Sylvia’s formidable mother and that bitchy long distance operator,
Put aside those sly wry songs, sung with a knowing wink of the eye,
Hang up your hat, hang up the phone, let it go, it’s time for goodbye.
Today is the day the Great War ended,
It’s been one hundred years to the day,
On the bloody fields a peace descended,
Under those fields thousands molder away.
The world was back at war twenty years later,
More fathers and sons gone to eternal rest
One world war’s toll was bad, Two was greater,
One losing leader could not accept second best.
The most evolved on Gods earth are still learning,
Brave soldiers still march into fading memory,
In fields the whole world over are old soldiers turning
At the thought of honour, glory and empty victory?
It’s the final curtain for cool Cosmopolitan Bandit Burt,
The epitome of the seventies man, as your Mama can assert,
A twinkling eye, a cocked eyebrow, that mountebanks mustache-
Then and now he could elicit in the ladies a damn indecent hot flash.