by Kevin Coyne
from: "A Tiger's Little Growl ",
previously unpublished material

He's the fabled sort they
build museums around take
tea with in their heads

Little realising that he's
as ordinary as a house-brick and just about as

Fit perhaps for standing
behind the hoop la stall at
the summer garden party

But not to be president
oh no not to be president

Your face is refreshment
for the eyes
or so it seems

My near blindness
can of course mislead
you could be as spotty
as hell in a better

For My German Wife
I love you forever
my heart is for you
all monies too

Very poor I might be
but the tree of love grows
two laughing birds sit on it

I ask not for rent from them
(for the tree is all mine)
only a song or two

So they sing with fury
shaking down brittle pink leaves
to celebrate your beauty

No Growl
The wolf in my head died
the day you gave me carpet slippers

After that I took to the settee
putting the dog at regular intervals

Listening to apples fall of the tree
in our cluttered backyard

Whispering about sex to myself
in a silly voice I didn't
recognise as my own

Not a growl of anger in me
Not a tooth in my head to bite with

Jesus is wearing a wig
in all the pictures I've seen

Which makes me think
he's not as magical as they say

He'd have a proper head of hair
if he knew what to do

Wouldn't look like a member of Black Sabbath
with a hangover

Listening to Bob Dylan mumble
I'm reminded that I can
sing clearly
but that what I have to say
doesn't appeal,

Bob (2)
Looking at a picture of
Bob Dylan I find myself
singing Blowing in the wind
to nobody in particular
in a peculiar voice
that causes me to unbutton
my shirt and inspect my armpits,

unsuccessfully, for a
possible source