The dust made him sneeze,
his face tinted by blackish grease,
the freckles reflecting his age
but,his mind was on another page.

The slightly greying temples,
did put forth a fear that trembles
in a heart hardly softened;
a tremor yet to be pacified.

That young stamping sloper,
he wasn't once the limpest limper
but, a young musician,
who knew how to muse precision.

He knew the trembling strings,
like his trembling trips,
to the very deepest depths.
He knew how to keep his steps.

That pondering philosopher once  he was,
I don't know if he still pass
the vast valley of momentary music;
he was that twisted psychic.

The tangled fellow searched through
the box that had the forgotten crew.
Enthusiasm shot over the place,
he couldn't yet forget the forgotten lace.

He never would want to retreat,
to the fiery fanaticism of his treat,
he had enjoyed all that was enjoyable
in his small hall of holes,he was able.

Greased of age was this musician
but,he could smile in fusion
with,pain and remorse.
He wasn't just meant to be morose.