On a weekday night, in this obscure place
they roar for you and queue for beer
beauty’s habitual tropes, your satyr face.
But, clearly, you do not want to be here.
You know how to dig gold with your pick
to capture an audience. You do now.
With each soaring chorus and fast lick
the crowd indulges you, recalling how
you straddled the world from club to club –
your audacious bends, your famous sustain.
In each hall, stadium and, now, pub
you grimaced, as if in rapture or pain.
You sought beauty with your profanity
assuming greatness was your vanity.
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