Tuesday 5th August

Shows – 13
Hangovers – 3


A mental shift to music, I have writ
Some lovely songs, & over years have found
A heap of great musicians to help raise
My music to the tapestries of art,
But never a great singer, til the voice
Of mine own god-daughter, Kae-Lei Stowell
My best mate’s daughter only just fourteen

These past few days Ive organised two gigs
For her to play a week or two from now
One down the Cowshed, the other up Tron Kirk,
& so as chessmasters think well ahead
I head down to Wee Al’s, yon Lochend Park
I start to teach the set we soon shall play

After an hour I trip off into town
& Venue 13 off the Royal Mile
A special little theater that gives
Those special little companies a chance
To strut their stuff upon this global stage
& sitting in the theater I wait
For entertainment, & a play called Fleeced!

There is a certain talent in our youth
Ebullient, with voices pure as air
Im whisked into a childish fairytale
Of Golden Fleeces, & the Golden touch
Of Midas, ebony Odysseus
A true highlight, his numibian skin
Assuaged by his delightful debonair


I wander thro the streets to Summerhall
Old college veterinary, the hub
Of proper art, y’know the kind that bites
The senses, as when Eve her serpent met
& with a chomp the wisdom of the world
Formed Zarathustran prophecies long lain
Dormant in the recesses of the mind
Where scowling wolverines scavenge for food

To a cramp’d & musty brickwork cellar…
A stage of innovation, crowd stood round
A table, two actors perform ‘The Flood,’
Right in our faces, two metres away
A sad tale of this centenary year
Of World War One, betwyx soldier & nurse
Through letters & leave, their love murder’d short

“Will it be my last act, to scream your name
As I lie dying, dismember’d, wet trench…”

& so into the sunshine shuffling slow
My sense humbl’d, quality perform’d
To such keen heights, I fall in love once more
With the human ability to find
A certain truth, tho’ feigning to pretend
That there is truth eternal in our ways!



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