It started out a lovely dream.
I'm sure you know the kind;
One that can only be invented
In a feverish Mikey-mind.

I was boarding a plane
Departing from the "Valley of the Sun,"
Carefully guarding a ticket
To hear The Dimpled One.

As I flew over land and sea,
I made up my mind right then,
When I met Michael, he would see
I wasn't just one of "them."

One of those nutty, star-struck fans
With nothing better to do
Than obsess and cry, drool and sigh,
All over You-Know-Who!

The scene changed and I found myself
In a grand concert hall,
Drifting along on the heavenly voice
Of Michael Ashley Ball.

As we snuggled close together
In the spotlight's gentle beam,
I caressed his darling curls,
(Remember--this is a dream.)

Suddenly, he was gone.
I heard myself nervously laugh,
As I stood outside the stagedoor,
Hoping for an autograph.

There, in the doorway, he appeared,
Radiating a celestial glow.
I felt my mouth drop open
As all motion became strangely slow.

He moved languidly toward me
With a smile in his eyes.
I heard my heart pounding in my ears.
I felt the panic rise.

It was then that it happend--
The terrible turn for the worse.
As I rushed forward to greet him,
I stumbled and spilled my purse.

Ever the gentleman,
He bent down to assist.
He reached for my photo album.
I desperately clutched at his wrist.

But it was too late!
He held in his hand
Proof that I was just another
Crazy Michael Ball fan.

Out tumbled the photos
Like a crude "B" horror flick.
The pictures I'd created
Suddenly seemed twisted and sick.

In a photo of Michael
Tenderly sharing the microphone,
I'd hacked out Sara's pretty face
And replaced it with my own.

In his arms, he cradled the lovely Lea.
But it was my face beaming with pride,
Scotch tape across my neck,
Like some kind of Frankenstein's bride.

Snapshots of Michael and Lesley
had also been defiled.
Next to Michael's Chapstick-smeared face,
My own face eagerly smiled.

Disguising impolite thoughts,
Michael tried to force a smile.
He handed over my foul creation,
Backing away all the while.

Mercifully, here the nightmare ended.
I awoke from my R.E.M. attack.
But I recovered in two shakes of a tail feather.
I've always been one to bounce back.

No need to indulge in self-pity.
No need to be morose.
Because as long as I have scissors and Scotch tape,
Michael and I will always be very close.

Disclaimer:  I have never really taken a pair of scissors nor any other sharp object to a photograph of Michael Ball.

Andrea Bastek