Haroldsmith
He had a couple of huge hits when he was young,
What can you say?
Call it the lyrical quality of youth,
Call it the successful packaging of personal difficulties,
Call it sheer bravado, manic force of will,
Call it good looks in the right light and pants.
Call it close-up photographs staring directly into our camera's eye.
But there came a hitch in the get-along
As his grandfather would say.
Something barked loudly in the distance,
But it sounded like it was right there in the room with him,
And once he was aware of the braying racket
It would not shut the hell up.
He drove clenched fist to ear.
His eyes swallowed rigor in yawning gulps
And his guts seized hold.
In the manner of an arthritic body on a cold, damp morning,
His mind was always
Coming-to stove-up.
It was always dawn
And he was always reluctant.
But his manager had a plan
And it is a plan that often works:
Re-package the hits every two years with new artwork,
A biography written by a similarly beat beat friend,
And a booklet of photographs of him younger, in profile,
Staring away from the camera.
Lastly, tack two really shitty new songs onto the package,
Pray for radio play.

Given the chance
He will climb on top of you again.