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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