If you were nineteen acts of my Broadway classic,

I would pause time to watch you make me proud,

And scribble poems on backstage passes,

On a different day, In a different crowd.


But When the notes are changing now,

On grand pianos of mice and men,

You’d still find me writing another verse,

On a different day, With a different pen.


Yet Beware the ides of march they say,

Even as they feast on your incredible smile,

But beyond the journeys of lost tenses

There will always remain another mile.