The Do

The Do
i.m. Mike Pentelow

We all turned up,
we wept, we laughed,

we drank and ate
our  fill of you.

Your ghost was here,
we felt it strong;

no one can quite
believe you're gone.

The sky lit up
above the Tower,

communists
across the lands

sat up, noticed
something wrong;

a falter in our 
strongest voice,

a missing note,
a poorer song.

We're out of tune
now you are gone.
Published
Categorized as Licks

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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