‘Tis Doctor Zhivago not George Gordon Byron;
A bard pens a poem for a muse and a siren:
Simon and Garfunkel flower your hair
With I Am A Rock at Scarborough Fair.
Ere were your dreams never not of the hour.
Were you, Dame, for a groupie mistaken,
Or Faust-like fated to sweetness and sour,
From rock ‘n’ roll dreams ne’er to awaken?
