I heard a radio playing in Westminster
a blowy dappled day in March
‘Radio, radio, will you tell me the weather,
I must know if I am to marry tomorrow?’
– I will tell you who plotted, who hid, who died;
I will not tell you the weather, it said.
– I will tell you a tale to make your toes curl,
and another to make you despair, it said,
but not the weather.
‘Radio, radio, your music’s the music of my life;
your rock n roll, Motown, the life I know.’ I said
– You’re the kind of man we like on our station:
dependable, a follower. Yes, you’ll get a mention
on the late night news amongst the dead.
But I will not tell you if you are to wed.
‘Radio, radio, I’ll turn on the telly, I will!’
I said, ‘I’ve wide screen, cable, satellite dish;
I’ve four directional speakers,
with woofers to make you spin on a finger!’ I said
‘I’ll not ask you again, now tell me the weather!’
And just as the weather was being read
three rendition flights flew overhead, I said,
‘If that’s the tone of the wedding, I’ll think again.’
– You’ll go ahead. the radio said.
michael9murray 