Bowie sang early on
So you scream out of line
I want you I need you
Which just about sums up
You and I, there being no you and I
To speak of
And on his birthday
I think he has given me not that
Red red rocking'n'rolling rose
But a kind of iris
Opening to the pressure of light
Rebel rebel
We look divine
Now you I couldn't dance with
And he is what he does
Philosopher king, hard scrivener, mine
How sloppy and loveable and double his f's
Just because my heart is without the wobble
The trouble, throb of gristle, the Adam's apple bobble
Bob's my coz
Bob's the tyrant
(That was for him)
Doesn't mean he doesn't Move me
In that sweet woeful way we want
More eyes and words than lips, and what of it?
It's his birthday
And we shall dance on
Until the subliming of you has reached that acute stage
Where I lose it, and gasp,
Lay on, Macduff
As he puts out an arm and rights me
Balance, brother, yes
I've known before him, and because of him
And shall know after his fact
Your ways of escape are not his
Rabbits' burrows, his strawberries
Running far downfield
So, too, shall I Move for myself
As he does
