Our Dave Poem by John Carter Brown

Here is a tale about my brother,
The one who beats the skins;
From earliest days he thumped and tapped
On table-tops and tins.

When bought a tiny metal drum
His face beamed with delight;
He rapped it with his wooden sticks
From morn' 'til noon 'til night.

No power on earth could slow him down
His destiny was sealed:
His drumming was to be his life,
No other course appealed.

His hyper-active ways, it seemed,
Were suited to his choice
Of instrument... he'd make his mark
With sticks, and not with voice.

And so he has, and still goes on
Improving all the time;
Refining each and every note
Until it sounds sublime.

It's true to say he's older now
And settling down a bit;
But still there is that need of his
To drum, he'll never quit.

He'll drum on to the bitter end,
The beat is in his blood;
He's gone from strength to strength you see
And now he is so good.

This tale about a drummer
Is getting near the end;
This tale about 'our Dave, '
My brother and my friend;

I have to say I miss him,
But I'm happy that I find,
He's overcome the handicap
Of being almost blind.

Written June 1994