The Dirty Old Man Song
My parents are rich
so they didn’t bat an eyelash
when they bought me the tickets
to Paris

When I arrived at the airport
in mortal fear and excitement
I dialed his number

I’m your biggest fan
I flew thousands of miles
frightened he wouldn’t
believe me

But he gave his address
with great kindness of voice
and said he’d be delighted to
receive me

My favourite author, my idol, my god
the whole English language bows before this man
he’s rewritten the world, his words have smitten this girl
and soon I’ll be shaking his hand

Sitting on his couch
trying hard not to tremble
I ask of his new novel
is it here?

And he smiles a bit
knowing its completely hopeless
he’s been blocked for well over
three years

not a word, no ideas
there’s no love in his life
no one calls, no one cares

and he tells me I’m beautiful
this life’s for the young
why should he continue
what for

My favourite author is breaking my heart
were all those words really written by this man
yet in his eye there’s a glint like the spark from a flint
of something I don’t quite understand

we talk of his work
of his mind, of his books
then he asks a few questions
about me

I answer succinctly
I’m young, I’ve done little
my writing is still cramped
not yet free

he breaks out the wine
and drinks like a fish
I take one sip for
his every glass

his hand is on my shoulder
getting bolder and bolder
his other hand lies limp
beside my ass

And I’m vaguely attracted to this pathetic old drunk
I don’t expect you to understand
this was not why I came but all the same
I’ve learned my idols a dirty old man

“If I love his work
I must also love him”
he decries as he knocks over
a lamp

and “I must be a flirt
and a whore, or worse dirt”
as he coughs out the words
bitch and tramp

the lamp falls with a crash
more for tomorrows trash
along with this man
in my heart
tomorrow I’ll see the city
soaked in coffee and my own pity
and forget about him
and his art

My favourite author, a great disappointment
the meeting did not go as planned
he’s asleep in his chair, dreaming of our affair
my idol, the dirty old man

I sit staring at him
and the drool on his lip
his left hand still clenching
his cup

he’s still asleep
this bastard, this creep
out the window the sun’s
coming up

and I think of his books
the excitement, the joy
of reading, turning pages
the rush

so my advice to all
is never meet your idols
it’s not worth it
it simply hurts too much

All things literary have ceased to enchant me
the books in my heart have been banned
he’s ten times my age so I’m turning this page
on my idol, the dirty old man
Piano and Voice: Jacob Wren
Recording: Radwan Ghazi Moumneh (hotel2tango)