'Kid' of Pop

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)