A F Harrold:A Party At George Gershwin's

From Lyriki
Jump to: navigation, search
“A Party At George Gershwin's”
Artist: A F Harrold
Albums: An Englishman's Home Is His (Modestly Priced) Third Album (2006)

Er, this's called: A Party At George Gershwin's
and it's about a party er, at, er n-n you know, you understand, yes

The last time I saw George Gershwin
Was in Crawley in '71
The party was simply perfection
It was truly the acme of fun
George Orwell was leant in one corner
And George de la Mare in another
And in case anyone's wondering
That's Walter's less-well-known brother

As George Eliot danced a fandango
Bernard Shaw stared hard at her bust
Which jiggled about and his hand reached out
And she said, go on then George, if you must
But then George Martin put on a record
That he'd especially had brought along
And everyone raised their dark glasses
And squinted because of the sun
That shone so bright through the window
Which George Formby had polished all morning
While sharing lewd tales of the things he had seen
Which he hoped would serve us as a warning

Whatever they were I forget now
They were the most memorable thing of the night
Except for the food, and Shaw in the nude
And the carpeting, weather and fight
'Cause George Foreman got angry quite early
And refused to join in with charades
And while most of the company laughed at this
George Harrison took it quite hard
And grabbing whatever was handy
Commenced to assault the dissenter
And had to be shot through a blow-dart pipe
With a tranquilised scrap of polenta
But not before wounding George Foreman
By inserting an old telephone
The type that had earpiece and the mouthpiece
And stood proud on the table alone
In the hallway or bedroom or elsewhere
Which was not like the 'phones of today
Which are made from the slightest of plastics
And that are constantly blowing away
No, this 'phone was a hardwood construction
It was ebony, with wires like rope
And required the aid of a woman
With a voice like a young antelope
To connect you to whom you are calling
It had no dial to snag fingernails
And she'd say: caller, go on, you're connected
In a purr that just never failed
To excite the masculine properties
Of a gentleman using the 'phone
In fact I've spent many long evenings
Connecting with her on my own

So anyway, the phone was inserted
And George Foreman remained standing up
From then till the end of the party
And regularly raising his cup
And singing along with the sing-songs
And later on dancing till four
Or five young men from the kitchens
Carried Georges Simenon out to the door
He was shouting coarse phrases in Belgian
Which no-one would deign to translate
Santayana claimed it either too early
For language like that, or too late

And so we were split down the middle
And the party just ended like that
George Sanders looked bored in the hallway
As he tried to decide on which hat
Either was his or would suit him
And then we filed on out to the street
And stood in the coolness awhile
Remarking on how very neat
The stars were arranged in the sky then
And on how very lovely it was to live
And Georges Pompidou opened his wallet
And gave away all he could give
And we hugged and embraced, a touch drunk
And I believe in retrospect that we sang
Until blankly we looked at each other
As somewhere a telephone rang