I heard a few late night fables,
of Stan smacked up and peeing in plant pots,
the greatest bossa nova puryevor of his day,
out of his box in Glasgow.
Dreams often die here,
a lot of mine did,
in clouds of sensemilia,
in swirls of draught Guinness,
or just daydreaming out the window
when I still had the semblance of a career.
I saw him once, my now late father and I,
my old man saying 'he isnae up tae much, is he?'
Meaning in the vernacular that Mr Getz's star had waned
and he was wearily blowing out tenor horn candles.
From the distance of time, a mere quarter century,
he was magnificent,
it was us that were everyday.
Dreams often die in tenements,
the goldfish bowl I was raised in.