Bubble Tour Blues

We gig in our bubbles, all glisten and glide,  

Through valleys and venues where echoes reside.  

A pick in the pocket, a mic in the mist,  

We float past the border where memory twists.


Each bubble’s a capsule of rhythm and sweat,  

Of tray bakes half-eaten, of debts we forget.  

We roll into Devauden, then bounce off to Bath,  

A surreal procession down pub-lighted paths.


No vans, no timetables—just buoyant intent,  

Our posters like prayers on the breeze gently sent.  

We shimmer through Cardiff, through Leek and the rain,  

Each chorus a compass, each verse a refrain.


The crowd sees us coming—a glint in the air,  

A noir little miracle, barely quite there.  

We land with a hush, then burst into sound,  

A gig in a bubble, not touching the ground.


Then off again, floating past hedgerow and moor,  

A Cubist migration from gig to next door.  

We live for the moment, the merch and the song,  

In bubbles that carry us softly along.


By Maharaja Rich 







Comments

  1. Maharaja Miku the Bad Bear Bard30 August 2025 at 09:44

    That’s amazing oh Maharaja Rich
    To each delectable line
    Oh resonating friend of mine
    You did give birth
    With a hefty dose of mirth

    ReplyDelete

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