If ever there were a somber song
To play in a drunken ear,
That many may strive to resist
On an eve of day led long,
Aloof with mockery and fallen tears
This tune would yet persist.
Carried out like ink on parchment
Swayed along by its stroking brush,
People would soak their hallowed doubts
Once more in its quivering confidence,
Discarding anew their greed and lust
In the chill of a November roundabout.
Accepting its flawed keys of note
Bathing in the base of drums,
Would it not inspire relief
Among the hopeless, and revoked;
Could its seduction not tempt one\'s thumbs
To pluck, as if chords could be seen?
Through hilarity and humility
It wavers in its course,
As laughter obscures intention
Sadness reveals direction,
And within that tone something grew;
Perhaps the red was woven blue.