When I was a boy and the sky in the summer
Was always a beautiful blue,
I formed humble dreams of becoming a drummer
With more number ones than U2.

I practised my craft by repeatedly pounding
Some buckets and old biscuit tins,
Creating a clamour that some found astounding.
I frightened the trash out of bins.

When not beating songs out of innocent things,
I played with the gang on our street.
We made tennis rackets with musical strings,
And used them with springs on our feet.

We'd cycle in circles for whole afternoons,
Kept busy with dizzy sensations.
At sunset we'd sit and start counting the moons.
We always had high expectations.

With forty-three hours in each day in July,
Time still flew by at great pace.
Walls that have now become small were too high.
Everything shrinks except space.

The universe used to have visible edges,
That astronauts mapped with precision,
With angels rehearsing at heaven's green hedges,
Revising their lines for a vision.

I nurtured my dreams of becoming a star.
I started a band who could stare.
'The Three Musketeers' had a new bass guitar,
An instrument made out of air.

With three younger brothers my drumming could bloom.
We didn't need four to perform.
Our bass player claimed to join in from his room,
From where he conducted a storm.

Apart from my drums and invisible bass,
Bill played his wall-paper flute.
Roy's tennis racket was strummed on his face,
Or skilfully kicked with his boot.

Our much-loved aunt Martha took hold of the reins.
She managed the band from the start.
She taught us to stop using most of our brains,
And freed us to play from the heart.

I never knew we could use less of our minds,
And that we'd appreciate more.
She found that each day brought astonishing finds,
The treasures we've learnt to ignore,

Like green plastic clothes pegs on white garden chairs,
Or rain drops enriching a rose.
She never looked hurried or harried by cares.
She'd sail around worries and woes,

Happily wearing appalling apparel.
Her colours engaged in a quarrel,
Clashing like squirrels and cats in a barrel,
Or Hardy in trouble with Laurel.

She got us a gig at an old people's home,
Despite a light sense of misgiving.
We'd only performed to a motionless gnome.
Our songs made him strain to start living.

Our stage was a neatly-mown, little-known lawn,
Surrounded by sycamore trees.
Our absent bass-player seemed very withdrawn.
The crowd was the source of unease.

The prospering size of the crowd was surprising,
But only the cats were awake.
We started a song about launching a rising
With weaponry made out of cake.

And then came a song about being well-fed,
And food with a terrible smell,
And breakfast in bed with inedible bread.
Our gig went incredibly well.

The thrill of our triumph inspired us to leap,
To honour an excellent day.
We woke all the old folk who'd fallen asleep,
And made all the cats run away.