Song Of A Choirboy (Poetry)

You wouldn’t think it, looking at me now,
as a nipper I was in the church choir.
Strange, looking back you just can’t believe how
things change. That God, then all brimstone and fire
and a force to be reckoned with, lost out
to the magical demon Rock and Roll
when I joined his band; learned my bad boy pout;
lived in leather; sold my junkie soul
for a Gibson guitar. Had my first joint
at a gig in Bristol, didn’t get paid
but some hippie chick wanted to anoint
my tattoos with oil, so I did get laid.

I was only nine when I joined God’s gang,
strange, too, how clearly I can still recall
the first time I got to my feet and sang
solo — raised my voice in front of them all,
high on incense and some old hymn’s power
to move the spirit. Rock and Roll’s the same —
a brilliant buzz ’till it all turned sour,
banged up for possession, out of the game.
From chapel to jail’s one hell of a trip —
though the lyric’s keen, inclinations tire,
for the padre says (if I keep my grip)
I can join the prisoners’ gospel choir.