channys6thswan
Lingers Long On Cank Street
Mick. The Hoss. My mate Micky
(Bear with me, this is going to be tricky)
Fresh riots broke out in Trumpton when the news came in
The Many Layered Land of Svarc
Went dark
Even Radio Jizzy fell silent too,
In the middle of the Flamin’,
Groovies.
Better to be crossing the sea with Gaye Advert
Or up on the Crest with the beloved Don,
(He’s a moaning line cert),
The Captain to us both, with his heart of beef.
Mick’s ticker, though, was pure iridescent titanium
The better to serve that cracking cranium.
That gave us the Roof, all them buses and dioramas, scream to go faster.
Who will ever forget,
His Taj Mahals of modelling,
The multiple mini-Filbos, the holy Cowshed,
Creations such as those,
They rightly put us in awe.
Only there was much more that Mick saw.
The reels of our lives, they all flicker past,
So fast,
In our dotage, we can hardly remember single scenes.
Yet Mick always dug deep, lived life in every detail,
Which he could put up for us again, on screens.
Legend?
You get that now for a decent second half.
One-off?
A couple of half assed, rip-off Tik Toks.
No, what stopped stopped all the clocks
What, in fact, blew the doors off my socks,
Was the minutely categorised contents of Micky’s head,
A universe-sized engine shed,
With its hundred million tons
From up freights to the rigging of boilie weights, via Mary Millington,
It was all crammed up there,
The sort of fine-grained stuff we all now struggle to share.
Yet Mick did that,
Bussing it out to us from his inner, monster warehouse.
Though he never travelled along life’s roads in anything like straight lines,
Where a zig zag one would do.
Even the act of being subversive,
He subverted.
Sturm und Drang,
Derek und Clive.
Mick’s dark wit lit up all four corners
And any one line.
Then suddenly, Bingo, he’s gone.
And now the real world all seems shite
As if all our relegations
Have been rolled into one.
(And Jimmy Bloomfield never lived).
Mick did, though, and for that we should all be forever thankful.
But that gratitude will oft be bittersweet.
Because on those grainy, half remembered memories of Filbert Street
You stirred up in our heads again.
The floodlights will ne’er sparkle again so bright
Through the mist of our past’s incessant drizzle.
(Bear with me, this is going to be tricky)
Fresh riots broke out in Trumpton when the news came in
The Many Layered Land of Svarc
Went dark
Even Radio Jizzy fell silent too,
In the middle of the Flamin’,
Groovies.
Better to be crossing the sea with Gaye Advert
Or up on the Crest with the beloved Don,
(He’s a moaning line cert),
The Captain to us both, with his heart of beef.
Mick’s ticker, though, was pure iridescent titanium
The better to serve that cracking cranium.
That gave us the Roof, all them buses and dioramas, scream to go faster.
Who will ever forget,
His Taj Mahals of modelling,
The multiple mini-Filbos, the holy Cowshed,
Creations such as those,
They rightly put us in awe.
Only there was much more that Mick saw.
The reels of our lives, they all flicker past,
So fast,
In our dotage, we can hardly remember single scenes.
Yet Mick always dug deep, lived life in every detail,
Which he could put up for us again, on screens.
Legend?
You get that now for a decent second half.
One-off?
A couple of half assed, rip-off Tik Toks.
No, what stopped stopped all the clocks
What, in fact, blew the doors off my socks,
Was the minutely categorised contents of Micky’s head,
A universe-sized engine shed,
With its hundred million tons
From up freights to the rigging of boilie weights, via Mary Millington,
It was all crammed up there,
The sort of fine-grained stuff we all now struggle to share.
Yet Mick did that,
Bussing it out to us from his inner, monster warehouse.
Though he never travelled along life’s roads in anything like straight lines,
Where a zig zag one would do.
Even the act of being subversive,
He subverted.
Sturm und Drang,
Derek und Clive.
Mick’s dark wit lit up all four corners
And any one line.
Then suddenly, Bingo, he’s gone.
And now the real world all seems shite
As if all our relegations
Have been rolled into one.
(And Jimmy Bloomfield never lived).
Mick did, though, and for that we should all be forever thankful.
But that gratitude will oft be bittersweet.
Because on those grainy, half remembered memories of Filbert Street
You stirred up in our heads again.
The floodlights will ne’er sparkle again so bright
Through the mist of our past’s incessant drizzle.
