The SpydersA Poem by David Lewis PagetI’m not into modern music since The Spyders came to town, One of those painted-tainted groups That you often see around, But Anne-Marie was younger than me And she went with every craze, She called me a boring dinosaur At the height of those Spyder days.
I’ve always been a conservative, I don’t get carried away, I know whatever is going down It won’t be there next day, The house was full of discarded things That had lost their first allure, The moment she saw the Next Big Thing Come barrelling through the door.
The Spyder thing was over the top I said to her more than twice, ‘They’ll be forgotten within a month,’ She replied, ‘That wasn’t nice! Why do you always bring me down, You’re turning into a grump!’ So I wasn’t allowed to criticise, She put me under the pump.
She came back home from the hairdresser’s With a bouffant type of style, Sprayed and lacquered so it was hard, She slept upright for a while. She said that it was the Spyder look That the girls all thought it great, With hair like a spider’s legs each side, Bobbing around her face.
I shook my head, but I held my tongue There was nothing to be gained, For anything that I said just then Would bring me future pain. The following day, she went away And she came back home that night, With a square of plaster on her neck And I thought, ‘This isn’t right!’
She said that she’d got a small tattoo And I nearly had a fit, I said, ‘That’s going to be there for life,’ So she wouldn’t show me it. She kept me waiting a week to see The blue-black spider there, Crawling up the nape of her neck And heading into her hair.
‘How shall I ever kiss you there,’ I howled, while shaking my head, ‘That’s the end of our necking days,’ ‘Oh don’t be soft,’ she said. We barely spoke for a week back then It was just the early Spring, She spent her time round the roses with Her bouffant, and that ‘thing’.
There’s always a lot of spiders webs Outside, at that time of year, And Anne-Marie must have brushed through them And got them caught in her hair, For days she said that she wasn’t well That she must have had the flu, But then one morning I woke in bed To see that her lips were blue.
Her head fell back on the head rest, and Disturbed the bouffant style, And thousands of tiny spiders rushed On out of her hair, meanwhile, They swarmed on over her shoulders, From the nest she had on her head, But Anne-Marie was beyond it now For Anne-Marie was dead!
I never listen to music now, I turn off the radio, Whenever the Spyder’s music’s played On the Old-Time Late Late Show. The band broke up a decade ago And the lead is doing time, He said that his skin began to crawl With the tatts all down his spine.
David Lewis Paget © 2014 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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