selected past writing at 42opus
Cousins, strange in serious suits,
fold their hands on their laps
and sing old, familiar songs.
2 June 2002 | poetry
I forgive you as I have forgiven many things,
lyrics for those dolorous blues we played, those women,
America's loneliest state.
Sixty-two year old Paul McCartney, a bankrupt businessman of Liverpool, strolled down Penny Lane watching children laugh behind the back of a banker with a motorcar. He worried how he was going to pay the rent due next week on his flat across the hall from Father McKenzie. He carried an old transistor radio that he had pilfered from the junkshop down by Strawberry Fields.
Yes, they called him Little Tuk, but it was not his real name; he had called himself so before he could speak plainly, and he meant it for Charles. It was all very well for those who knew him, but not for strangers.