I was six years old.
My dad got me a prize,
for scoring an offside goal.
The gospel truth.
A record player.
Made by Bush.
The levers clunked,
its engine hummed.
Got it form a bloke,
at the pigeon club.
Records too,
for hiding an untold truth.
‘Sgt Peppers’,
‘Songs for Swinging’ Lovers’,
‘Behind A Painted Smile’.
Songs that faked a truth.
As I got older.
I lied and cheated.
Became unlovable.
A terrible, artful truth.
This afternoon,
I’m a middle aged man,
my girl gets me a prize,
for living a beautiful truth.
It’s a record player.
Made by Alba.
The levers clunk,
and its engine hums.
Got it from a man,
Leeds Victorian Market.
Brought a record too.
The dance of our gospel truth.
