'Too Many Poets'

Key to authors' pseudonyms

A death it was, not quite foretold.
A constant love, a heart of gold.
She gave from the start, right up to the end.
An aching absence time won't mend.

That look in her eyes, that smile on her face.
That touch to her skin, that tender embrace.
You thought when you held her she'd always be there.
Now only sorrow, such a burden to bear.

Long winter nights, leaving behind
Unanswered questions, haunting your mind.

She's not coming home, you know this for sure.
Accept it, move on, stuggle hard to endure
A life in which faith has been cut to the quick.
God's played His hand, not the Devil a trick. 

Procol Harum concerts in 2001: index page

Manchester: Palers' Convention

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