Hey, Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me—
in the jingle-jangle morning, I’ll follow you.
Like my nan, slippers tapping,
buttered toast, kitchen radio.
She’d sway while evening’s empire turned to sand,
vanishing from her hand,
eyes wide, still not sleeping.
Grandad called him “the boy with a tambourine soul,”
said he took the badge off, laid his guns down—
“Can’t shoot them...
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