A Prose Poem by Martin . A . Smith
Big Mal Was Big 6 ft 6 And Wide As A House.
He Met The Beatles in ’62 & Bounced At the Cavern.
He Became A Roadie – Settin’ Up the Amps and Mics.
But His Real Job Was A Fab Four’s Personal Runaround.
Lennon Said: “Mal Socks”, And It Was Done.
Ringo Said: “Mal Undies”, And They Appeared.
George Said “Earl Grey Tea Mal”, And So Be It.
Paul Said: “Beetroot Sandwich Mal”, And That It Be.
The Big Lad Had a Big Smile And Thick Glasses,
Only Triumphed By His Big Heart and Rounded Edges.
A Wife And Kid At Home And Only Paid 38 Pounds A Week!
While The Beatles Had Mansions, Steak Dinners And Soiree’s to Greece
“I’m Just Too Nice To Ask for A Raise, An Extra Nickle”, He Wrote.
His Dairy Scrawling’s, Would One Day Make Someone Rich.
He Even Helped Paul Write A Line Or Two – So They Say At Least.
And Paul Promised Mal A Royalty? Or Did He? Or Did He Not?
Was Big Mal Too Nice Or Were The Fab 4 to Mean?
A Bit Of Column A, A Bit Of Column B?
In ’70, When Beatles Broke, Mal Became Broke In Another Way
Come ’75 He Was Financially and Emotionally Spent.
The Post-Beatle Industry, Was Far Too Tough For Big Kind Mal.
And While He Slumbered Around Trying To Forget,
His Sufferin’ Wife Lil Finally Left Through the Kitchen Window.
Down And Out, And Clutching The Last Straw,
He Scuppered to California And Rented A Dingey Room.
But It Was All Too Much For Big Friendly Mal,
And He Did What He Knew & He Hit The Bottle To Cope.
The Apple Corp Boss Called And Sensed He Needed Help.
But Alas No! Mal Said He ‘Wouldn’t Come Out Tonight’.
But Tomorrow 1PM For Lunch?, ” Yes I’ll Be There!” Said Mal.
And He Kept Drinkin’ & Drinkin’ & Taking What God Only Knows.
Drunk, Down And Doped He Played Inside With His BB Gun.
Cops Were Called And Thence They Did Come.
But the Airgun And Bourbon He didn’t Put Down.
“Just Let Me Be, It’s My…My…Mine!” He Did Scream.
And Together, The Cops Shot a Volley of Blamity Blam’s.
Of The 6 That Were Fired , So 4 did land.
Big Mal Now Harpooned, Did Slowly Sink Downwards.
Bottles Rattled And Floorboards Flew.
The Air Gun Clacked On The Ground Harmlessly,
Having Finally Left His Iron Clad Grip.
Medics Arrived And Then Counted Him Out Of The Game, aged Only 41.
But I Ask – Was His Death Really By His Own Misadventure?
Or Was It The Cops fault?
Or Do The Beatles Have Some Skin In The Game?
The Funeral Came And Went, But The Beatles Didn’t Go.
Just A Couple of Big Pips from The Apple Corps Did So.
He Was Cremated And Then His Ashes Posted.
Those Royal Mail Dopes Lost The Parcel, And So Beatle John Did Quip:
“Didn’t They Check The ‘Dead Letters Office’?”
But Now That The Death Was Done, What Doth The Judgement Be?
Your Honor, It’s Clearly 909th Degree Homicide & Now I Will Close My Case.
This Is The Ballad Of Big Mal Evans.
Just A Gentle Guy With a Giant Roar.
The Fluffy Monster The Beatles Needed.
A Constant Presence On Their Studio Floor.
Loved More Than They Dare Let On,
Far Far Too Big to Ignore, But Eventually He Was.
Was Big Mal Evans Maybe The “Unluckiest Lucky Man Alive”?
So “Unlucky” That He Was Actually Now Dead?
Drunk With A Pop-Gun & Shot Dead By The Cops.
And God Help Him, He Was Then Lost In The Post!
Yes, Mal Was Scrooged By The Fab Four and Apple,
But Don’t Blame His Demise On George Paul Ringo Or John,
All They Did Was Answer The Knock On “The Cavern’s” Door.
But I wonder – Would Mal Still Be Alive If They Had Doubled His Wage?
And Paid Him A Lousy 76 Pounds A Week?
Alas, As Ringo Supposedly Said: “Tomorrow Never Knows”.
And We Silly ‘Beatles Fans’ Will Never Know.
And In Closing, May I Ask a Final Question,
And Can I Pose A Final Thought?
Is Money The Root Of All Evil?
Or Is It The Lack Of It, That Is Evil?
Mal Evan’s Life, Or Should I say Life and Death,
Is Surely A Living Allegory, Of That Old Conundrum.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 