endgame
Off to see George Michael tonight.
Listening to the original London recording of ‘Chess’ by Andersson/Ulvaeus/Rice on the pod this morning, and these lyrics came up. Somehow, they seem as apt today as they did 22 years ago. More so, perhaps…
It’s the weak who accept
Tawdry untruths about freedom…
Prostituting the soul
Chasing some spurious starlight
Trinkets in airports sufficient to lead them astray.
Does the player exist
In any human endeavour
Who’s been known to resist
Sirens of Fame and Posessions?
They will destroy you; not Rivals, not age. Not Sucess.
They all think they see a man
Who doesn’t know
Which move to make
Which way to go
Whose private life
Caused his decline
Wrecked his grand design…