The last showband star
Sitting on an old park bench
Alone, alone, alone
An old man sits-a refugee
From a near by old folks' home.
Each morning at the crack of dawn
Two nurses lead him there
To sit there drooling in the sun
While people stand and stare.
"Mummy!" said a young boy,
"Who is that dirty geezer?"
"His mother mutters, "Never mind
Let's go home and read your Beezer."
The old man was a showband star
So many years ago
Now his health is gone, his mind has gone
And so has all his dough.
A transit van goes down the street
The relic stumbles to his feet
The transit van soon disappears
And he sits back down on his seat.
"Venetian Blinds," the old man croaks
"Are a showband I don't know
If I could get a job with them
I could earn myself some dough."
The old man thinks back to the past
And gives a horrid leer
As he thinks about the groupies
The crack, the fags, the beer.
"A chance is all I need," he croaks
I can play a wee bit yet."
As he stares down at his shrunken fork
Which is cold and very wet.
A minibus goes slowly by
Some children point and jeer
"Wait for me," the old man croaks
"I'll run and get my gear."
But run the old man never shall
His shanks are weak and thin
Both his lungs are banjaxed
In his ears there is a din.
He hears again the showbands
Underneath the shimmering light
Wearing suits in pastel colours
So sexy and so tight.
Johnny Flynn, the Clipper
The Royal, the Melody Aces
The Freshmen and the Dixies
With youthful boyish faces.
The drums go bang, the cymbals clang
The horns they blaze away
Amps will hum as guitars strum
In a far forgotten day.
He sees the girls, with bangs and curls
The boys with brylcreamed hair
Dancing 'till the early dawn
Without a worldly care.
Another transit van, up jumps the man
But it will never stop again
His showband days are over
Oh God, the empty pain.
The old man passed away last week
It was part of God's great plan
He went the way he'd want to go
Run over by a transit-van.