There’s an old folks home just up the road. It’s full of old people. Every Friday they get herded into their common room, and a singer or two turn up and sing at them. I can hear it from the other end of the street.
I hear badly sung versions of rock classics that I remember from when I wore a younger man’s skin.
Years ago these badly sung songs in old folks homes would be ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’, then they morphed to being Tom Jones and Elvis Presley songs. But now it’s the classic rock songs I have heard every day of my waking life, and once loved as part of my youth, unaware I’d be tortured by them never ever going away. Ever.
Now they are the weekly fayre of my neighbouring old folks home. So, it looks like I’ll never be free of them.
England's England 