When I was young I didn’t really follow any one I wasn’t into screaming at the Beatles Or collecting singles or going to concerts I’ve always been a bit behind with a lot of things I can never remember names Or who played what or where or when But then that maybe only matters In pub quizzes or if you want to feel flattered By other people praising you for what you know It would be nice though, sometimes, to be the one Who remembers what they heard when they were young And relate it to a first kiss, or a walk in the park But then I never could get up with the lark Always had a bit of a struggle, doing the usual things Although I did listen quite a lot to Cat Stevens Wishing I could be Sad Lisa but ending up just being sad Still, it hasn’t all been bad At least I haven’t got cluttered up With a load of CDs that I don’t know what to do with And now that I’m 61 I can listen to anyone Or anything I choose And my music collection Is out there waiting for me Just as it was All those years ago When I was young
However, even though he helped me to write the poem, I’m only crediting him with eating the pie, unless he wants to eat his words. Ha!
The perfect pie
The perfect pie is sensationally satisfying oozing with succulent gorgeous, gravy goodness as the nostril-caressing aroma emanating from its slab-like form stimulates the anticipation of marvellous meatiness turning into an explosion of flavour the savouring of which makes the world immediately a better place – perfection on a plate.
Perfectly placed on a shelf, they appear to have arrived where they were always meant to be, the pebble, the picture and the plant. Which is odd really because pebbles are meant for beaches and pictures for art galleries or walls; plants can be anywhere that nature calls.
I’ve no idea where the plant came from apart from the supermarket where I picked it up. Or did it pick up me, with it’s green and white simplicity?
The plant is now closely proximal to the pebble and the picture, in a ceramic pot.