The Ghost of George Melly

Been out walking in my brown suit,

in the country in my brown suit.

Momentarily transported

from a world of gammon-scented

Brexit, rank AstroTurf,

Long COVID and desiccated dog dirt.

Titfer over one glassy eye

and a patch over the other.

Free hand gaily slappin' thigh.

Didn't I murder your mother?

In the cool shade

of a woodland glade,

singing the hits of Bessie Smith

to two enthusiastic tits.

Mistaking me for a moving tree,

jays land on the outstretched

branches of my arms.

Soon it will be time for me to go

to the eternal lounge with potted palms,

so I'll leave you with a song...

Please don't be long

Please don't you be very long

Please don't be long

Or I may be asleep.

B.R. 19.07.2021