KISS
KISS played a gig at Wembley Arena,
Back
when it was called The Empire Pool,
And when ticket fees were fairer, leaner,
London pub prices more affordable,
And train-travel, cheaper beyond recall;
Though tonight Rob drove, whilst we in the back,
Opened and drank a Special-Brew six-pack.
Upon arrival, I being quite pissed,
Rob parked his van; I don’t remember where;
We walked past a pub I couldn’t resist,
Steve and I had a few bevvies in there,
And after we left, I didn’t much care
One way or the other, whether I saw
KISS or not, I just wanted to drink more.
We staggered and swayed along Wembley way,
Found an offy; Jack Daniels I bought,
And throwing the empty bottle away,
Entered the Pool with my drunken escort;
Made an American angry, distraught;
I asked him how far he’d flown to get here,
Having knocked over his overpriced beer.
Somehow we made it to the highest tiers,
And caught the tail end of Bon Jovi’s set,
The songs of which meant nothing to my ears,
Nor the band, who I’d never heard of as yet,
Still playing as I, struggling to get
To the bar, stumbled and fell like a clown
Into the stewards, who sat me back down.
KISS came on playing minus the face-paint,
(Not a song; I mean they weren’t wearing any),
And we, both deciding: KISS fans we aint,
Asked of ourselves simultaneously:
“Who the fuck are KISS”? left ‘em to the many,
Made a sharp-exit, got paralytic,
And sat at the kerbside frankly pathetic.
They found us in the brotherly embrace
Of partners in drink, tight as Siamese twins;
I must have crashed out, but in any case,
Next thing I recall is the rubbish bins
Outside my flat, and beyond that
…More tins,
More bottles, more pubs, more nights on the piss,
But NEVER regret, for not seeing KISS.
