Some time not long ago, before Tony retired,
I shrank out of sight, away from the avenue,
And from the verdant hills of Greenwich;
Some time ago, before Gordon rode to the Palace,
I retreated from the shady oaks of Shooter’s Hill.
Then into a darkened room in that tower block,
I yielded to the deceitful whispers of a deep funk,
Cursing the war that killed and maimed so many,
Swearing that our friends are foes to us unknown.
Lady Funk gave me a kiss,
And took me into a cuddle.
Talking fast of our common future,
She plans for a thing deeper than a fling:
I have a golden ring, she said, and well can sing.
Trust me, and powerless again you’ll never feel.
Strong in our union, we’ll usher in a new day.
From the deep pit of blues,
Came the dissent of a tired voice:
Beware any promise of power
Under the cover of darkness.
Shall it not be but of a dreadful life?
Oh, it shall be anything but the real stuff.
For real power is of joy and of love;
It’s of appreciation and of knowing.
Real power is of clarity and of resolve;
It’s the vibrant flow down your living fingers —
The creative stuff that underlies the universe.
Lady Funk backed off into a mope,
And had nothing further to say:
Brooding and sulking and slowly,
She put away the ring and her plans.
And in the end, I never knew if she can sing,
For that new day tarried and stayed away.
