Billy Connolly's Voice (Poetry)

If words had colour, Billy’s would be red
spheres of rich magenta flecked with gold
and scarlet accents, pulsing, whirling, said
with humour rolling round and glowing bold.

Whispered, they’d be paler — pinkish-mauve;
angry, a deep purple bruise of cloud;
teasing, rosy cherry-coloured orbs
that ripen as his voice gets rude and loud.

Like coloured flash bulbs, fleeting, tiny worlds
that spin across the airwaves, streaming on,
they leave bright echoes, tinted vapour swirls;
each joke a sunset when the act is done.