I will never stand among the famous Kopites,
Wave red banners and scarfs above the thunderous kop end,
Belting out “You’ll Never Walk Alone” along with loyal thousands,
And watch our Egyptian King, Mo weave through rivals on the green.
I will never get to shake the hand of Stevie G,
The man who showed me long ago through the flicker of the TV screen,
When I was hardly yet a teen, the beauty of the game with the miracle of Istanbul,
And made me fall in love for the first time with a red shirt and a famous name.
I will never get to hear the voice of Gerard Way live,
Singing the very words that got me through my toughest days of youth.
I will never get to meet the legend Miyazaki,
Pick his mind about the beauty of life, art, and story;
Never get to be awed in person by Stephen Fry,
Laugh and learn with every syllable he enounces;
Never get to read an Enid Blyton first edition,
The ignition of a young boy’s imagination;
Never get to shed a tear in Lourmarin,
At the poignant stone of Albert Camus,
Nor at the stones of Capote
Or read an elegy at Grey’s,
Whose thoughts and words inspire my dream.
I will never play Liszt on the piano or Schubert on the violin;
Never make a stance above a crowd and shred the guitar,
Never write a screenplay to win awards,
Never write a poem to win broken hearts,
Never write a book to save my life,
Never write a thought so profound,
Never paint or draw for anyone to think
I have the soul of Vermeer, Rockwell, or Dulac.
I will never make a fifty-yard dash and score a goal
On the biggest stage in football—
A childhood dream already lost.
I will never be this, I will never be that;
I will never do this, and I will never do that;
I will never have the love that I want,
I will never give the love that she wants.
I will never have the house with the garden,
I will never have two baby boys and two baby girls.
I will never . . . I will never.
I will never, but I may yet.
I may yet have a baby boy or girl,
A tiny house with a tiny garden,
Give the love that she deserves
And have the love that I deserve.
Yes, indeed, I may yet.
I may yet find satisfaction in what I am,
Not fret about who I could be;
Find fulfilment in what I have,
Not worry about what I could have.
But it is simple for me, so very simple.
I am filled with wants, but one above all—
Everything else is supplementary—
And if I am lucky, I may yet be.
Yes, I may yet be.
Gutter Galley 