The Busker
He seems, at first, a sorry figure:
the hair that once leaped down his back
in waterfalls of golden brown,
now just a thin white halo round his head.
Each year of fish and chips
washed down with Carlsberg Special in a Transit van
has left another ring of beer gut round his waist.
But watch the grin
that creases his red face as he plugs in.
The power flows through his guitar
into the hands that dance upon its slender neck
like wild white spiders, spinning dreams
of nineteen sixty-nine.
And with each fusillade of wailing notes
the crowd grows thicker, whoops arise,
the pounds and pennies flow.
And when it ends, he gives a final smile,
lifting his amp and gig bag twice as heavy as before.
he shuffles off in search of chips and beer,
becomes a sad old man once more.
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