by Nick Gisburne
The ticket says, ‘No entry after 10’.
I take no chances, take my seat at nine.
I’ve waited twenty years to meet the men
Who tricked me into wasting what was mine.
You’d think a rogue, a rebel soul like me,
Would recognise the doubletalk, the con,
But only when you’re blinded can you see
That what you took for truth and trust is gone.
So many years this moment has been planned.
I focus where my bitterness belongs:
The same two brothers, same old bogus band,
Their fortunes made from seven stolen songs.
They sing them, well, but never leave the stage.
A night of bloodshed pays for every page.
