That Guy Who Played The Flute
Posted: Sat Apr 21, 2012 12:59 pm
I wrote this poem a couple of years ago, but it seems appropriate to post it here now.
That Guy Who Played The Flute
© Stephen Whiteside 07.07.2010
I saw him in the paper. He looked so sad and dark.
He wrote the riff upon the flute that gave the song its spark;
The song that hit the stratosphere, for which folk went beserk.
That’s right, I mean ‘Down Under’, and the band, yes, ‘Men At Work’.
‘Men At Work’. Ironic, right? It felt so much like play;
Cheeky songs to lift the soul, to listen to all day,
And all day we did listen, and half the night as well,
As right around our little globe they cast their magic spell.
But now that spell is broken. These tears are not of joy.
We stand in silent sorrow as before a broken toy.
The band once so united in a joyful, glad refrain,
Is splintered – each retreating to his private world of pain.
It was not a conscious copy, but delivered with a muse.
He’d not the slightest notion that he’d lit a long, slow fuse.
It’s a very scary prospect. It could come to you or me,
A flash of inspiration that has brought unconsciously
Some echo of a memory from home, from play, from school.
It’s like a horse that’s Trojan, and it means you’ve snapped a rule;
Transgressed a law, you’ve crossed a line, you’ve copied others’ work.
Can you be sure that in your songs such fragments do not lurk?
So what, then, is the message? I am not sure I know.
Each song that you record is like a dice you choose to throw.
I’ve heard it said, “The law’s an ass.” I guess the point is moot,
But I do feel very keenly for that guy who played the flute.
That Guy Who Played The Flute
© Stephen Whiteside 07.07.2010
I saw him in the paper. He looked so sad and dark.
He wrote the riff upon the flute that gave the song its spark;
The song that hit the stratosphere, for which folk went beserk.
That’s right, I mean ‘Down Under’, and the band, yes, ‘Men At Work’.
‘Men At Work’. Ironic, right? It felt so much like play;
Cheeky songs to lift the soul, to listen to all day,
And all day we did listen, and half the night as well,
As right around our little globe they cast their magic spell.
But now that spell is broken. These tears are not of joy.
We stand in silent sorrow as before a broken toy.
The band once so united in a joyful, glad refrain,
Is splintered – each retreating to his private world of pain.
It was not a conscious copy, but delivered with a muse.
He’d not the slightest notion that he’d lit a long, slow fuse.
It’s a very scary prospect. It could come to you or me,
A flash of inspiration that has brought unconsciously
Some echo of a memory from home, from play, from school.
It’s like a horse that’s Trojan, and it means you’ve snapped a rule;
Transgressed a law, you’ve crossed a line, you’ve copied others’ work.
Can you be sure that in your songs such fragments do not lurk?
So what, then, is the message? I am not sure I know.
Each song that you record is like a dice you choose to throw.
I’ve heard it said, “The law’s an ass.” I guess the point is moot,
But I do feel very keenly for that guy who played the flute.