The
Writer's Voice
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Hamish
by
Rusty Broadspear
Most beginnings begin with an aspiration.
No different for skinny old Hamish McCormack.
Dead beat. Dead end job. A live imagination.
Reluctant grave digger, healthy mind, sore back.
Two nights a week Hamish strummed guitar
With a local crew, in a pub, in a pretty rough town.
Beer money. Pulled the birds. Invisible star.
Larked around in raucous sound. Invisible clown.
This wet morn, digging like mad, digging very late.
Gig last night, didn't stop, did something new.
He coloured at the thought, stood up straight.
Billy Wind howled, he was wet through and through.
The hole was nearly ready, nearly, was good enough.
Threw his shovel in his van. Hamish was a good man.
Of late, dreams invaded sleep, made him weep, wake up rough.
He parked in his favourite spot, to devise a plan.
Last night he sung, first time, in front of folk,
The lead had smashed his car and legs on the way to the gig.
They begged him, he conceded and sung through the smoke.
Went down well, really well... could he make it big?
He pondered the night as he sat in his van and thought of a man,
A friend, solo singer, looking for a partner he'd give him a ring.
Wants to do a tour from Milan to Japan,
Could be very special and he knew he could sing.
Hamish's plan worked out well indeed.
The tour a sensation, followed by solo recording contract.
His career prospered, success guaranteed,
And over the years became a world renowned act.
The trouble is now, Hamish yearns for his roots,
Or a reality life, private love, with a woman of the Earth.
Gullibility and honesty were his attributes.
So success was accepted, for what it was worth.
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