The Grand Mania of Mick Jagger



David Gottfried

Rubied in the Tuesdays, the black and purple pouts
Imbibing illicit elixirs in copious amounts
Preening and screaming and annihilating doubts
Jagger’s on a roll, his army charging, routs

All is red and purple, violent violet hues
The beat is hard and driving, the energy accrues
The mass is in mayhem, Pentecostals in pews
Reveling in vibrant, immoral avenues

He wears scarfs of scarlet, rampaging on the stage
Exuding and extruding, a manic, joyous rage
He burns with a fever you cannot hope to gauge
From this warlock’s spell, you cannot disengage

His Sister is Morphine, his cousin is cocaine
When he speaks he scowls with eminent disdain
His hair’s a black flower that does not need the rain
Belittling the sun, the plenitude of the plain

His legs come from a cheetah or another feral beast
Velocity and vim are always waxed, increased
When he strides he rises, as certainly as yeast
He dances like a shaman, an animistic priest

He has all the grandeur of a brilliant British Lord
Ruling with arrogance over the galling horde
His breeches are stunning, his form is adored
The teeming teenage girls, are mesmerized and floored

The concert is a mass, the guitar is a scepter
The music a liturgy of the adolescent sector
The stereo, a prayer book, for the pious collector
And Jagger, a madman, for a time our lord and master

Copyright David Gottfried 2003


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