The name’s a strange one:
Sexsmith by trade or by vocation
with voice of plummy angel and sad child’s face,
distilling pitfalls of our frailty,
miniatures of moments,
reveries of sorrow and of fate.
Friend in need
when I have need of tender mending,
I love that you don’t strut and are not smug –
are sweetly vulnerable instead,
with nest of hair and doleful eyes.
Ghosts of ’60s harmonies
haunt every song and well-honed phrase
repurposed and reclaimed:
Your former glory in a flash,
Now lost in thought or thought out loud.
Who cares if you’re not hip.
These songs will sound around the world
through my remaining days.