Haven on the End of England

We mentioned not the writer and critic A A Gill

Who died, or A A who 98 years earlier was born
On the same day we gathered to have our fill,
As Miles' bootleg boogie blues blew on horn.

And did you see the largish canvas in frame
Of my most expressionist work of late,
On the wall in a far corner of the same
Sun lounge setting where once we ate

When first the Countess came and Judas sat
Expressionless on a chair somewhere in the garden
For fear of contamination from the somewhat fat
Roll-up just lit by the same Countess who, on

Noticing the Bonce, asked: "Is it all right?"
And we thought if it fumigates the place
Of Mekons, why not? Though he took flight
Shortly afterwards with exceedingly sour face.

So did you yesterday glimpse the Last Pope?
I fancy not, but what I certainly do know
Is that it's going nowhere soon. Not a hope
With the reserve set so high (and this will grow).

Yet, notwithstanding A A Gill, the mayhem
Of the catch up in so few hours with so much to say;
On the gramophone, albeit late in the day, Art Tatum
Played to commemorate the arrival into the world of A A.