We called you Mad Pat
We called you Mad Pat, on account of you disbelieved the events of ’69;
that Aldrin and Armstrong had somehow spun you some line
about moon dust and coke cans and flags in the wind of an Arizona studio.
Yet often you could be among the sanest that I know.
And smart. You knew life was fleet. To be spent in music, dance,
And care for the sick. And that money comes by happenstance
to be blown on halves of fizzy lager; tribute bands.
A saner mind is seldom seen; and so it’s somehow strange that
We called you Mad Pat.
We called you Mad Pat
We did… We called you Mad Pat, the lass from the ‘Pool - and though it’s always rude to quibble
We knew that we could rile you - saying that…well, actually… Birkenhead’s on the Wirral.
You loved Lennon, Lemmy, bikes, Asian tigers, and, strangely, you thought highly
Of ancient Sparta, 300 warriors and its victory at Thermopylae.
We’d often find you, comfy in the Peacock’s nook, engrossed
In earphone heavy metal reverie. But from your observation post
You’d sally forth and talk in pleasant company. And your innermost
Solitude was a strength - yet vulnerability. It really makes me wonder that
We called you Mad Pat
But…We called you Mad Pat
Mad “Ringo” Pat, demon of djembe, tom and tambourine
With bags of percussion beneath your stool, secreted unseen
Yet somehow heard. Of the two qualities required for timpani
(enthusiasm and a sense of timing), you had at least one, and that’s fine by me.
For you taught me to play to a counter-rhythm. It’s a thing that’s called “jazz”.
Pat, You deafened the room with your laugh and pazazz
And there’s a hole in the band and our hearts and the pub as
We sing for you.
Mad.
Epic Spartan Galahad. Heavy-metal Ironclad.
Indomitable Stalingrad. Moonshot Saturn Five Launch-Pad.
Sail safe, Pat, at daylight’s end.
Woman. Dancer. Stranger. Friend
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