We sang in Xanadu cave
Your rich strong bass notes
suspended like jewels
amongst the glow worms
You introduced me to Mrs Miller
who sucked ice cubes before she whistled
to improve the tone
Catch a Falling Star
It’s a Hard Day’s Night
So many dreadful renditions
it was hard to choose my favourite
Your old record player
knew a thing or two
about oddballs
Your ashes
tossed to the breeze
at Perfect Strangers beach
Some came to rest, I know,
on the grave of The Tin Man
You were his biggest fan
You and he still do
a sprightly dance
when the moon is overhead
lighting up the stage
for no one but yourselves
For history, as you know,
is not that dead at all.
That's about the size of it 