nan watching Barry Manilow clips on youtube at 2am on a Wednesday
your cheeks puff to spheres only rivalled by globes
you’ve been all over, crooning to ladies and gentleman
on every continent, breaking hearts with the blink of a twinkling,
squinting eye.
were you singing just to me Barry? or was it my dream,
listening to you, on a beach in Brazil, my tan matching yours
bronze as a medal, or one of your awards that line the shelves
of your mind, you gazing at me with the adoration, like I was
a crème brulee or a particularly beautiful microphone,
or Farrah Fawcett, risen from the grave with poodle curls still
intact and bouncing.
none of those other singers have a hold on me- Bacharach couldn’t compare
Bob Dylan can bog off, none of them, have that intangible,
glossy gorgeous tone you capture, in your skin and your voice,
oh how I long for you to hold me in your lightly muscled arms
I don’t mind the surgery or the Botox, no one’s perfect,
(apart from you that is) you are my idol, love, the golden calf I worshipped to a
syncopated beat, (of your latest album).
in my wildest fantasy,
we ride through a desert together, you in deepest black, I cool,
but elegant in white. we contemplate the sunset. I massage your bunions.
you kiss my thrombosis, we linger in the sand, enjoying the pleasure
of each other’s company. I beg you to sing me a song, you,
embarrassed, glance away.
you can’t deny me anything though, you naughty boy
you begin one of my favourites,
this one certainly is for me, I am a lucky gal,
your easy glide from loud to soft, the lyrical joy of your vibrato
sends quivers down my jelly thighs, Bazzer
I know you’re a far off celebrity, a man
destined for men better than the likes of me, and my
double hip replacement but
Bazzer, be mine?
your cheeks puff to spheres only rivalled by globes
you’ve been all over, crooning to ladies and gentleman
on every continent, breaking hearts with the blink of a twinkling,
squinting eye.
were you singing just to me Barry? or was it my dream,
listening to you, on a beach in Brazil, my tan matching yours
bronze as a medal, or one of your awards that line the shelves
of your mind, you gazing at me with the adoration, like I was
a crème brulee or a particularly beautiful microphone,
or Farrah Fawcett, risen from the grave with poodle curls still
intact and bouncing.
none of those other singers have a hold on me- Bacharach couldn’t compare
Bob Dylan can bog off, none of them, have that intangible,
glossy gorgeous tone you capture, in your skin and your voice,
oh how I long for you to hold me in your lightly muscled arms
I don’t mind the surgery or the Botox, no one’s perfect,
(apart from you that is) you are my idol, love, the golden calf I worshipped to a
syncopated beat, (of your latest album).
in my wildest fantasy,
we ride through a desert together, you in deepest black, I cool,
but elegant in white. we contemplate the sunset. I massage your bunions.
you kiss my thrombosis, we linger in the sand, enjoying the pleasure
of each other’s company. I beg you to sing me a song, you,
embarrassed, glance away.
you can’t deny me anything though, you naughty boy
you begin one of my favourites,
this one certainly is for me, I am a lucky gal,
your easy glide from loud to soft, the lyrical joy of your vibrato
sends quivers down my jelly thighs, Bazzer
I know you’re a far off celebrity, a man
destined for men better than the likes of me, and my
double hip replacement but
Bazzer, be mine?
