he sings in that annoying way-
a nasal adolescent whine
and songs you cannot quite define,
or voices incoherent rap
in a jaunty backwards baseball cap.
Rap I know sod all about,
his singing though is miles out –
his limitations magnified
by being loudly amplified.
With coins collecting at his feet
in a busy lunchtime city street,
he’s on a fervent quest, it seems,
to live his tuneless fat kid dreams.
With self-belief and passion strong
he bares his feelings, lost in song,
the soulful ballads mainly those
that no-one over thirty knows.
His eyes are closed, he knows some moves
and fleetingly his act improves
but nothing really compensates
for all the notes he desecrates.
But whether he is sharp or flat
they still drop money in his hat.
So, sadly, to my sorrow
he will be back tomorrow.
What’s needed here
is a word in his ear,
to hand him his cap
and tell him he’s crap,
that what he enjoys
is really just noise,
to crush his dreams,
spoil his schemes
and to make him aware
that life is unfair.
You’re noisy, you’re flat.
Just stick to being fat.
Such a terrible task
is a really big ask-
the gloom it would place
on that great moon face
and I just cannot see
that falling to me.
Most people won’t
some might say don’t
so he’ll stay there until
somebody will.
re-write