First there was a grey room and colour of midnight
And the same beer he would drink for the next nine years
With different stickers – I never heard him complain –
I liked him immediately this spectator reading his books
It was apparent there were lots of conversations we’d never have
So there I was cleaning the dishes which he must’ve understood
The blue sky rolling over London in that bland tall way
A bath of air a soap in the mouth
It was inevitable that he would be the Leader which was good
I remarked on it
He fights like a mad soldier on an island
With real passion with zeal
This plan he has – this coming to fruition as inevitable as the trees –
A fateful man like this
Unshaken by trenches he was a poet also
That when this heart was broken further I knew – plate and magma –
Someone who pulses like the world is to be trusted or at least enjoyed
Of course speaks of absolute laws adrift thru whirlpools and spires
We dropped bombs on Kings Cross in our youth – a time passed –
Now he is to me an Atlas and bears the weight of great friends
Legends spoke around the hall as cups clash where heroes meet
Not quite as he imagined and yet the plan is enacted.