As the kitchen staff go on the warpath With the head chef leading the culinary charge On the waiters and waitresses, under-staffed, Drawing their cutlery for a tomato blood-bath
The summer season’s over again.
All the deck chair’s now have been folded up And the little old ladies with their lovely cup Have had their biscuit and their seaside nap Back home now for the wireless cat on their lap.
The summer season’s over again.
How very soon the bride and groom Pick out the moon. And how very soon astrologers Burst their balloon.
As the Empire’s bathrooms across the land Turn on their taps and wash off the sand With the first day back close at hand Uniforms ironed and bedtime stations manned.
The summer season’s over again.
How very soon Buckets ‘n’ spades become pencils ‘n’ pens And how very soon The summer season’s over again
How very soon Holiday dads become marketing men And how very soon The summer season’s over again.
How very soon Ice-cream lolly sticks become the cane And how very soon The summer season’s over again.
How very soon The summer season’s over again. How very soon The summer season’s over again.
Song ‘How Very Soon’ by me. With group ‘Wildsmith.’ Johnny Morris on drums, me on vocals (usually the other way round!). Chris Kennedy special guest appearance on kazoo instrument. Roberto Paderi on bass.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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