Here it is, an ode to my Howard. If only...
O Howard Moon
With your face like a pink balloon
A jazz-fusion maverick
That just needs a break
Britain's leading cream poet
Would kill for a date
I'd love to make you cups of tea
Read the papers, make fun of the Queen,
We'd laugh at each others' terrible jokes,
My mum would think you're a jolly nice bloke
I'd knit you a sweater for something to do
Whilst you're off on adventures with Vince and Naboo
And when you returned, I'd have made us some tea,
Bangers and mash, with gravy and peas.
And we'd listen to jazz, and remember a time
When everybody spoke in rhyme
And scat men danced, and jazz was king
Before computers, and iPods, and... shit...
O Howard, my moonbeam
With your eyes of sad coal,
Let us elope, and to the forests we'll go!
We'll get with the bracken, and move with the moss,
Forget Mrs. Gideon!
It's her tragic loss!
We'll talk of trumpets and bookmarks into the night
'Til our eyelids are heavy, and we curl up tight,
And Rudi Van Disarzio lulls us to sleep,
We followed the puffin
Now we'll never leave...
Yes that's right, I am cool. More Boosh poetry! I demand it!