Fuzzed Up

The damp suffocating smog of the old, Working men's club, Fills the lungs with a rank, Sweaty taste, Scratching the back of young throats. Five minutes to go, Till they start the show, As nerves begin to take a hold of them, Quaking, uncontrollably, Slightly anxious, -But not too obviously In their sight, Sipping the thick creamy head -Ireland's best, A ditty to ply them with some bottle, Sitting quietly before the storm wakes. He clutches his Les Paul, Slaps in the lead, Then begins to rouse his trusty Old steed: Ee sounds good, Then rings an Ay, Gentle Dee, Delicate Gee, A soft sweet Bee Ending,with the high pitched Ee, Of the bottom string. The call comes-to the stage- Time to let rip. A baiting crowd awaits, Slobbering folk, Beer fuelled, demanding 'value for money'. The nerves return, With the slightest yearn, To retreat, not bother and run on home, A barrel full of dread, Fills his young head, Then disappears as the opening chords, Reverberate around the smoke stained walls. Soaring powerful notes, With some kicking drums, Partnered by the bluesey thumping, Dull bass, filling the electric void In between, Holding the tune steady, Tight, nice and lean, Adrenaline races through Fuzzed up veins. A quicker buzz rushing wild to the head, As the crowd cheer and applause, In such awe, Wishing they could be 'rockstar's' too, instead.