Overdose (A Minor Ballad)

by Paul Hooker

Brumbly Bob and the sweet BittyBoo
tussled all day with the toodle-dee-doo
It was never quite false and never quite true,
but that was the problem: nobody knew.

They hummeled and bummeled with all of their might;
‘twas the best they could do in the stars’ frosty light.
They were never quite wrong and never quite right,
as they lay on the sand in the dark of the night.

Said Bob to the ‘Boo: I think I have found
a way we can fly with our feet on the ground.
If we’re in for a penny, we’re in for a pound.
We’ll get clean away and we won’t make a sound.

“Here in my hand, by the dark of the moon,
is a serving of bliss in the bowl of a spoon.
If we aren’t too late and we aren’t too soon
we’ll mix up some magic in the lee of the dune.”

Said the ‘Boo in a while: “I’m floating on air
with the stars in my eyes and the wind in my hair.
I’m not really here, but I’m not really there.
If I never come down, will anyone care?”

It’s hard to predict what meanings emerge
when you fall through the fog and land on the verge.
And it’s partly fandango and partly a dirge
that the dark waves dance in the green ocean surge.

Uniformed eyes make their keen observations.
The obvious doesn’t require explanation.
They can neither confirm nor deny allegations,
but pack up their kits and go back to the station.

The waves swell and, cresting, return to their bed
in the sea, never resting but swelling instead.
It’s never quite secret but never quite said
how the living make room for the lingering dead.

So Brumbly Bob and the sweet BittyBoo
have finally mastered the toodle-dee-doo.
And it’s not up to me and it’s not up to you.
They’re gone now. What can anyone do?