it migrates into purgatory fashions

and plays like a quiver on the nerves

oh so rich art thou in artifice

that would have me believe

in a cold and unattributed consciousness

like an infestation of infant prodigies  

for it is a vicariousness of viciousness

that leaves the music of C Major

devoid of untold homage

and a singular letter on a scale

is it a transmusicality of mutation

punctuated by red felt tip notes

for all music is life

the life of C Major in the time

of vicious vicariousness