shake the fake

evidence I'd stake like two hotels

Hamlet wasn’t written by The Bard

once the piece was out there on the boards

Shaky did improve the lines of it

but the basic text is Baconesque

take the myth of Hitler’s fate for inst

what we need’s a remake of Macbeth

get the finest in perhaps Dan Brown’s

still around or maybe Stevie King

else that grey piece with the kinky shades

people getting told the naked truth's

all that counts cos fiction’s just washed up

folks believe in nothing but these days

wake up calls not false alarms now scoot

café crème at seven-thirty sharp

Archie Locost attrib

heartless chicken

executions don’t faze her she's hard

that's according to The Sun so fake

news may be but let's imagine why

her reaction to a fellow's head

chopped off & dumped in a wheelie bin

is relief she won't get raped by him

what's compassion for if not to set

folks apart from beasts in field or cage

tigers kill their shotgun brides oh why

no one knows but those who gaze inside

open jaws may lose their silly lives

jungle law is what they’ve bargained for

we’re not talking about smoking drugs

stealing cars or social media

misdemeanours that would blot her cause

if she’s lost 2 babies then it’s true

something's gone to pot & now a new

child’s around her time the law stepped in

never mind your prejudice old Sun

bring this careless crackpot teen back home

let the family sort her out is all

brother

Chris your death was accidental we'll

blame it on a slowmo overdose

though the final sentence read for drink

life was your choice

counting on that mythic stay-behind

time was called but when the towels were up

orders in they sprung a mean old trick

dry was your tongue

mostly as you laid that lovely head

pounding at the temples couch or bed

heaven span its vortex through your mind

wake of the flood

loud enough to stir the keepers’ ghosts

Elsinore had echoed to that call

not to be or other rot you bawled

sure of your words

asked if you’d enjoyed yourself the while

took no time to think or vacillate

bravely as the truth closed in you cried

smiling oh yes

when the ancient world would rumble gods

shook its timbers or so people thought

sending ripples cross the purple sea

heaven had drunk

Chris & friends lip-served libations tipped

off the earth its human cargo had

high pretentions then forgot themselves

acted divine

quoting songs & stories did their time

held symposiums on wine or drank

beer in public bars but usequebah

in camera

spirits stalked behind the temple walls

lurked in shadows pounced on fallen men

distillation racked the sacred ground

cracked under foot

you & Franny held a cabal then

safe from prying eyes & ears we kenned

only when the sun showed up again

heaven had drunk

laying something down was by the way

yours was living mostly for tonight

gave eternity a run on form

breaking at dawn

fat the worm that grew inside your skull

white precipitate of lion’s milk

sat upon your thoughts though if you knew

no one would think

as a stoic seldom you'd let on

what you really thought as often was

bottled up in cellars out of mind

deep as your will

what you stored for others we replay

vintage words of attitude & style

generosity a fetching way

whispers & smiles

what you left yourself was nothing much

frowned upon the French but not the Dutch

friendship trumped the lot bequeathed to those

all but your clothes

Dad once said with Chris’s touch & Phil’s

drive he could have made a pianist

thanks for that incisive comment Pop

room at the top

woulda been a joke to play duets

you on fingers me on tell you what

brother Lees to share a common plot

now there's a skill

who invented glasses yours The Look

not Costello Morrissey or Joe

Ninety had it all in '63

original

photogenic coulda been a star

all you lacked was ego cos a gang

member first and foremost played the team

game set & match

talent in your little fingers more

staying power than an orchestra

strong & silent as the lion’s roar

one passenger

who’d’ve thought that Chris would top the list

Westy Brody Dozy Hamish Marg

Little Brian & Terry the Hat

not you & all

there's a pipe to stuff with thinking woah

Christopher no patron saint of Go

brother you were saint of patronage

close to the edge

down the banks or what no Chris no fun

just another bloody Carry On

still you'd never take your leave without

raising a hoot

cos you saw the irony in it

like that quip about our grandad’s legs

first he lost his left to gangrene then

gout robbed his right

might’ve written books by morning light

never could be arsed or even asked

stead of which you led a kindly life

spliced to the mast