Dave Oates

Dave Oates,
one of the few trips I'd rather not have be nuanced.
The '90s may have killed him,
the whole ten years a piddling demonstration in knowing the performer,
knowing the performance.
Because did he know he was performing '40s-face?
He did but did he know that he knew?
The '90s; gosh, so much trifle.
Knowing about knowing something,
So little knowing that we knew about history.
Man, I nearly died.
All that knowing that I knew about myself,
and not knowing how to know about myself in history.
It's summer and Dave Oates is still playing tennis with catgut.
A sudden development: does he read the Beano on a tablet now?
Man, the teens must be killing him.
I can't stop thinking about the Typhoo leaves in his jacket pocket,
that wool is thick in the summer time.
Man, look at footballers these days,
frontiersmen,
pre post-colonial.
Moustache wax; yay or nay?
Dave would probably have it this way,
all the ages, of nuance.
He's already faced a fading of ideals through his chosen era
and several times subsequent.
The empire glowing faint, the death embers of Churchill's cigar,
which he extinguishes in the dregs of his tea.
The stub will dry in time,
a first year will take it and draw a massive pair of bollocks
on the wall of the music room.
How have we been laughing about ourselves through the ages?
Can I do a history of the humours?
Split it with a minor in surfing studies?