Nineteen, or Seventeen, what’s it matter
If the target to achieve is seven, or eight
In this way your morning awakes you
In this way reality catches your solar plexus
Amazing really, that it’s taken sixteen years
Think of all what you did in your first sixteen
Which is where your memoir faltered
Thirty years before news of this illness broke
As it did in that telephone call
To a Yorkshireman visiting Yorkshire
Of course by now you know I’m skirting
You too can feel the words meandering
That is how it must be, I have to conceal
For concealing is my learned behaviour
But, as you can see, I sort of want to reveal
I want to, but no I cannot, what is the point
What is the use of giving you news
Which actually is only of any concern to me
