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Revolver, Rubber Soul, Sgt. Pepper's, The Beatles, Abbey Road, Let It Be—Don't get me wrong, I love them, too. As they were for millions, they were the soundtrack of the sex-desperate, id-intoxicated, acne-riddled adolescent me. Here comes the sun, they sang, and I believed, opening myself like a window, rain and snow no hindrance, knowing the sun would win out in the end, the end not something I could fathom, one of their LPs an antidote to no tomorrow. Let it be, they sang, and I believed that, too, never doubting that I would always have a mast to tie myself to, that the yellow submarine would welcome me aboard, would take me on its magical mystery cruise, would let me be. But this is the poem about the Beatles that I never wrote, and now there are more yesterdays than tomorrows, more time spent in port than on those rainbowed seas, George and John dead, Paul and Ringo old. I'm old, too, and now I know I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob, I'm the old man on the hill, I'm Rocky Raccoon, I’m Gideon without his bible. I'm old, too, and now I know that the truth might not set me free, but that the truth is free. --
George Drew’s many books include Drumming Armageddon (Madville, 2020).
Copyright 2020 George Drew.
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