With his leonine face,
Young for his age,
A little unsteadily he
Climbs onto the stage,
Adjusts the microphone
From his special chair
Benevolently regarding us
All expectantly waiting there.
A raconteur, a story teller,
He explains his song choice
Then holds us all captive
With the power of his voice.
Songs of the sea
Songs of a different age
Songs of life and politics
As he sits and owns his stage.
The minutes fly like seconds
As the night flows smoothly on
Until all too soon it's over
And Mick is up and gone.
But, every Sunday afternoonI
I know where he's to be found,
With his talented gang of mates at
The Minerva Sunday Sing Around,
And that's real class.
