We would gather
at the coal shed,
three of us, Sunday
evenings,
with an out of tune
guitar,
a battered cardboard
box
and knitting needles
for drums,
to sing and play
the hits of the day.
1967,
we were the Beatles,
the Rolling Stones,
the Bee Gees,
we were rubbish,
cack-handed,
impromptu, ad-lib
but we were happy in
our dreams
to be Lennon,
McCartney,
Jagger, Richards and
Gibb.
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