The Gramophone

The old homestead, Welby – oil painting, L. Philipsen/Dekker/Vandepol

In a forgotten field but only next door, under gumtrees.

How much fun, in an abandoned rusty old car.

I cannot count how many of us were crammed in there, like a swarm of bees.

But there you were, instigating the whole hurrah.

Your mum’s wind-up gramophone, with a pile of her country and western records.

And wearing her bikini too, and lipstick, so red.

Excitement of the passion, of your mums’ desires, she reckons.

Of slim dusty, and many American greats, you had said.

How funny looking back at the scene, with music playing, melodiously.

All excited, and you sitting down, on a pile of that treasured dream.

Cracking them all, and in horror jumping up, sitting right down unceremoniously.

Onto the only other pile, cracking those as well, how mean.

I never found out how much trouble you got into that day.

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