It echoes still, the retro chimes;
In my mind, deep the music plays.
Taking me to those days of fun;
when mama made sure you drank your milk;
and my neighbour Vinci made it a point;
I woke up swaying to his morning raga,
‘Beat it’ lines from one Mr Jackson; man!
I took shape, those years that rocked,
the Billie Jean and Thriller scores;
gave my legs the freedom I know.
I could never do the moonwalk bit,
but I sure could dance, who wouldn’t;
when Jacko snapped his fingers once;
it was disco time, it still is; dude!
I didn’t know who Jackson was;
I was a kid who could sway, not think.
Mama told me, he sure can dance;
I saw him too, through the tube once;
VHS it was, Middle East gift;
my uncle’s version of rocking town,
coming back with bucks off Black Gold.
Now I know a bit of this;
how Jacko tried to get it back.
While I played soccer with pals at school;
he played hard ball in a grown up world,
doing the rounds as Jackson Five;
scarred he was the rest of his life,
from missing years of senseless fun.
Glitz, glamour and cheering fans;
he loved this world, or so we thought.
The only thing he wanted was,
to get those years back, be a kiddo at home.
He was amused by the lights and bucks;
but was never at ease in all the fame,
and drowned himself with killers of pain.
Neverland, he lived his dream,
but the life he lost was forever gone;
from wonder to a walking freak,
we made him so, we selfish men.
We just wanted to dance to him;
and never could see the withered hands;
covered by the whitest of gloves.
This is the tale of the King who was,
a child trapped in a man’s face; broken mask.
He died shattered, misery I heard;
living a life he started to hate.
Angel of sorts, Oh that he was;
made us gay with his soul, his voice;
'Kid', not King of Pop; play at least on heaven’s floors.
(To Michael Jackson)