After Live Aid

Day Nine

Our fellow troddled along 

and up the old stairway with a huff.

It was barely a stair, see; merely and virtually

a ship's ladder. Heck of a job

ascending it to the end of it, especially 

following a sell-out gig at Wembley Stadium.

For this was no ordinary chap off the shelf, but

only Freddie Mercury his very own self!

He mad-tired slung his moustache over across

his face and humped open the door to the place;

A little maisonette on the floor

above Mrs May (yes, Brian's owld mother).

Why should he, a top-notch act, stoop

to sleep and wake in such a gaff, above

that middling boot of a bag, whose face

was eternally pressed, like a grape, against the peep-hole

(and likely into his private correspondence).

Mama, said Fred. Ooh-OoOoh!

How I long to not live in a shoe.

I could have flat-shared with Roger Taylor, 

Or, like Rod Stewart, become a sailor. 

He was sparkled out of his grump by the sudden

and feline arrival of his fourteen pet cats.

Here and there they curdled,

like a fluffy tide of mayonnaise,

and presently, Freddie Mercury

had such a lot of fur to see. 

Day-O! he sang to the hungry buggers,

Tomorrow at three

I will visit the estate agency

and we will see about a three-bed semi. 

But how to bring it up with Brian?