A few years ago I wrote a poem for an anthology called Split Screen. Poems about pop culture, they were. I got Michael Corleone as my subject that time and wrote something chilling and serious. Well, Andy Jackson is doing putting together another Split Screen and this time I’ve got ABBA, so the poem’s a lot fluffier. Here it is for your delectation, as an advert for the forthcoming anthology, which you should all, of course, buy.
ABBA
My my! It’s nearly two am
the DJ spins one final hymn
the dance floor writhes with grins and limbs
sometimes it’s good to just join in
Come and sing some ABBA.
A clumsy nursery rhyme plus score
of muzak from department stores
but still the hoards come back for more.
Leave your kudos at the door!
Come and sing some ABBA.
Fifteen? Painful? NME?
Slogging through a Fall LP?
Why not take a chance on me?
Let Prozac pop songs set you free!
Come and sing some ABBA.
The lyrics, yes, they’re gleaming turds
the blandest cliches ever heard
the syntax duff, the rhymes absurd
but LOOK, the whole place knows those words
Come and sing some ABBA.
ABBA-Yabba-dabba-do
a level up from Aggado
I’ve just rhymed “do” with “do” with “do”
this stanza is my Waterloo
Come and sing some ABBA.
Divorce, of course, the pop machine
but still, their songs were cake and cream
from car to club to stark canteen
unleash your inner Dancing Queen
and come and sing some ABBA.