I moustache you one more thing

Spoken word poem about the good brothers

As Barry lay, thin and pale

on his death bed, he called his brother over.

‘Paul’, he whispered, ‘Paul, come closer to me.

My brother, do you remember the good times?’

Paul sighed, the motion of air gently moving his moustache.

He did. As if it were yesterday.

His brother lay breathing softly, a small smile dancing on his lips,

his own moustache, once full and luscious,

now limp and gently fraying at the edges.

‘Oh Paul, Paul…do you remember our childhood, in Rotherham?

How we played Paul, how we sang, how we danced!’

‘Aye brother, aye. But rest yourself now, you are weak,

don’t speak brother, don’t speak.’

A single tear rolled down Paul’s cheek.

He knew his brother was close.

‘But Paul, Paul’, his brother whispered,

‘Do you remember the vision we had?’

‘Yes Barry’, murmured Paul.

The vision to make children laugh,

to trip and fall and bumble,

to dream up schemes, to have hair brained adventures,

to make people hoot,

The giggle siblings,

with their unique vision,

to have chuckling a part of children’s daytime television.

But they were younger then, stronger.

Now they were older, much older,

and Barry was nearing the end.

Paul was faced with losing his brother and best friend.

He turned away from Barry to gaze out the window.

A stray cat dashed out from between bins far below,

perhaps chasing after it’s own dreams and hopes,

or perhaps a mouse,

Paul did not care anymore.

A shallow cough from Barry caused him to spin round,

his brother’s breathing was making odd sounds.

‘Barry?’ he asked, ‘Barry!!’ he cried,

and his brother forced out his final reply.

‘Paul, Paul…I’m growing weak,

But here’s to you brother, to you, to…’