Who Needs You ⟴ J. Deacon

The Bassist

First was the Tommy Steele special—

The resplendent rouge allure;

Its ivory peg-head and copper spindles,

Tendons of titillating demure.

Fret-marks gleaming, a saddle

Robust,

A shell of glossy sheen;

A sprinkle of of stars and a dancing dame

On a splash of cerulean.

Made in heaven; 

in Selcol; 

in Abby Road Studios

'Tis the stuff of children's dreams.

***

Those tender strings of propylene dipped in twilight,

Fished from the sea;

They Prevail easily 

To the plump fingers of a child

And "twang" 

Melancholily. 

Though it croaked but flat 

And straining timbres,

A throat, 

Not made to bend.

He plucked tentatively,

Between The skin of his fingers,

A note

After.

Note, after.

Note. 

The reverberation transcends

Not without,

But within. 

And the child would grin gleefully 

As the Rockabilly

In his shining blacks and carmines, gazing from the bout;

The child returned it 

Levelly, 

Not quite with admiration, but with the unfathomable scrutiny 

Seen only in his age,

And smote

The frivolous caricature, with the swift motion of a palm

Square upon the costard.

A peculiar company the two shared.