You're finally alive again, Syd.

Shine.



Yesterday at the bar,
a plastic blonde on tv said
you were 6 feet under and breathing dead.
All those chemicals in the soil, finally-
would the lads strum your song at the funeral,
or just sit there in black, jack?

But the blonde carried on;
said you were a founding member, but left
after some "drug trouble".
Others were surprised you lived so long, till
Tom the bartender said you had been dead
a long time already.

You grew old, syd, and plucked potatoes
from the seeds in your mind. Tea at 4 'o' clock?
Did you paint in the shed outside,
next to the garden hose and rake?
(Is your pick at the bottom of the fishbowl
and will you still guide my lost n' lonely soul?)

You died as Mr. Roger Keith Barrett. I stared
at your picture, as you glared at the camera
you were too tired to chase away. Death's happening all over,
like it always has. But somewhere for me, Syd, you're finally free.
The druids at stonehenge wait with your Fender, and once again
you will write music, not just poetry.