John Lennon: Randolf’s Party (In His Own Write, 1964)

time for some weird poetry again. i am sorry for being so quiet these days concerning the blog, but some things just didnt work out easily for me and im having a difficult time. but what could fit better into such a mood than a satirical, anarchical poem by dear john, who will be thirty years gone this year. though this poem is related to christmas and you – depending on where you live – might be enjoying a beautiful summertime right now, i thought i might post it because it might appeal to anyone feeling sad or lonely right now, or just to make one think; because, as always, johns poetry isnt only black humoured and disturbing, but has a deeper meaning behind it. in this poem it is the lesson that one has to learn, that your friends might not always be who you think they are. it is about false illusions, self-deception for the sake of ones own peace of mind and the loneliness of individuals left behind by society. those who lack knowledge of human nature, but are naive and idealistic about the ‘good in men’. i wont go on speculating if john wrote this in an autobiographical sense, but obviously this again is a harsh criticism on society and its lack of humanity. harsh in that shocking way of johns that we are all too familiar with.

It was Chrisbus but Randolph was alone. Where were all his good pals. Bernie, Dave, Nicky, Alice, Beddy, Freba, Viggy, Nigel, Alfred, Clive, Stan, Frenk, Tom, Harry, George, Harold? Where were they on this day? Randolf looged saggly at his only Chrispbut cart from his dad who did not live there.
“I can’t understan this being so aloneley on the one day of the year when one would surely spect a pal or two?” thought Rangolf. Hanyway he carried on putting ub the desicrations and muzzle toe. All of a surgeon there was amerry timble on the door. Who but who could be a knocking on my door? He opened it and there standing there who? but only his pals. Bernie, Dave, Nicky, Alice, Beddy, Freba, Viggy, Nigel, Alfred, Clive, Stan, Frenk, Tom, Harry, George, Harolb weren’t they? Come on in old pals buddys and mates. Witha big griff on his face Randoff welcombed them. In they came jorking and labbing shoubing “Haddy Grimmble, Randoob.” and other hearty, and then they all jumbed on him and did smite him with mighty blows about his head crying, “We never liked you all the years, we’ve known you. You were never raelly one of us, soft head.”
They killed him you know, at least he didn’t die alone did he? Merry Churstchove, Randolf old pal buddy.