Ringo

 

Ringo

The Ringo that I knew didn’t play the drums,

hadn’t had any lost weekends; mocked up

no spaceships when he was never young

to fly with Nilsson crooning ‘Only You’

or posed on LP sleeves cosplaying Klaatu

somewhat tuneless, missed high notes

on ‘Act Naturally’ and ‘What Goes On’,

he probably didn’t touch any given song,

being some unfriendly. If he knew them,

he didn’t say. Never lifted a drumstick

that didn’t drip in chicken, learnt a craft,

or played any notes he never wrote;

but sunk real thick beers enough to float,

casting off from the bar with a sneer

if you got near, claiming ‘you’re not Cornish,

it don’t come easy, back off boogaloo.’

Talked good games of rugby, never played

and looked down on football with disdain,

‘that game for women,’ he’d often claim

scoffing at fouls, scornful of free kicks,

long haired mincers rolling around parks:

went to Wembley Way that historic day

Truro lifted The Vase. And then he’d say,

‘I’ll retire; I’ve always wanted to travel’

the way they often do, tipping his cups,

a sunshine life for him, Raymond, sail away.

He was always Andrew to me, never Andy,

I didn’t know he thought himself a Ringo,

but that’s the way those Westerlys blow,

and I bought his house a few years ago

when he’d erected a new one on the hill

looking over. It must’ve been a bitter pill,

when he had to sell, later feeling unwell

but down the local, he’d new stories to tell,

coming on like a dream, peaches, cream,

with thoughts dripping half baked schemes

in late autumn. A solicitor’s clerk for a job,

'you're no teacher, you're some foreign slob,

and I’m in law’, Ringo might once've said:

but not now he won’t – he’s dead.