The Sgt. Pepper band was finally broken up

sometime in an early afternoon

when no one was looking

down on Mathew Street and the sound

of the full throttle cover

rang down upon other’s ears.

 

To bring the cover up to date

is all we ask of the young,

to make it their own and give us the anger

and passion that is missing when friends

can no longer be found,

but our own cover of our favourite song

remains unsung and unpainted

as Sir Peter Blake puts away his canvas

and shuts the lid on Time.

 

The strains of a trumpet not far away

is heard and in my head the

Good Guys are welcomed back,

although I never did see the point

in anything other paying homage

to painting it black or finding a shred of decency

in the Devil.

 

Putting a new band together to cover the cover,

to place their own interpretation on a world

long gone but still played out in Mono

on a Sunday morning through speakers

as the steam rises from the bacon

sandwich frend with eggs on a dying cooker.

 

Getting them together, some I had met,

others as dead as the crumbs left

from the split egg white and bacon rind

congealing on the plate, was a near impossible task,

however,

as I stand infront of my own Sgt. Pepper Band

Richard Dawkins places his arm around Tom Cruise

as they laugh at the absurdity of it all,

a youthful Joan Simms offers her bosom

to the world and the cackling laugher of another

on a different row fills the air.

Lenny Bruce, no longer able to declare Gabriel’s truce

stands motionless as he stares out to see

and Mike Oldfield’s shadow rings true amongst

the posturing celebrity kisses.

Dear James Herbert, a horror God with one mortal equal

squints around the cast of thousands and hopes

that his fellow writer finds a way to turn it into a tale of woe,

for in all of this we certainly miss Edgar Allen.

Roy Castle dances for Clarence Holbrook Carter

and sets the record straight

and the Goat is fed by Bronte, upfront and personal

as the wind withers her prose

whilst Hayley Atwell smiles to the tune

of a Billy Bragg song of isolation and meaning.

 

The shuffling on the middle row is captured

and framed by Quentin Blake

and Tony Benn and George Orwell get down to business

and the state of all that went wrong.

The Welsh bard sings of bugger all and lifts

a glass of scotch to Lenny still staring with wild abandon

and Stephen King writes sonnets for Anne Sexton

who offers Mercy to Alan Alda, Mike McCartney

and Ken Dodd whose tickling stick and calling me Rufus

as I line them up in my head brings a smile to the proceedings.

Chas Bono strikes a chord as somewhere a saxophone

mournfully asks why things are not what they seem

and Jenna Coleman kisses

Astrid Kirchherr on the cheek in hello

as she looks to the glory of Stuart below her.

Tony Hancock, Pete Best and Sid James

share a glance

as Daphne Du Maurier waves St. Piran

and sighs as her countrymen let her down

and Tom Holt and Seamus Heaney

swop stories of the absurd with

enthusiasm and glory.

 

A word to the missing:

as the bandage clad Invisible Fan

found his way to the studio was blocked

and the allure of a night at Eastlands

was just too much to bear and as he took

the Unknown Soldier, the Invisible Man

and the omitted virtue along with him,

the picture would always be incomplete.

 

Astrid’s gaze found Stuart in fond mood

and Anthony Gormley placed two of his

men as guarded honour next to

Mickey Finn and Paul Duckworth playing the tuba

and the solemn delivery of one of humanities

greatest sons as M.L.K. bowed his head in quiet repose

and Stephen Fry played a game of metal crib

with Alex Williams and Lizzy Yarnold  whilst

Michael Palin stood erect with a smile

betraying a million laughs and wishing he could interview

Rosa Parks as she sat down with wonderful defiance and

chatted without impunity to David Wilkie and Jo Pavey,

never realising that her supporter Martin

was just six feet away.

 

I lined up the last and placed Jo Pavey, Colin Bell,

Stephen Hawking, C.S. Lewis, Col. Tim Collins

and Fred Lawless in amongst them all

and whilst the Iron Men stood guard

and the Beatles took their rightful place,

I took a picture of the moment

and then asked them to perform.

Ian D. Hall 2015