A lounge singer came across the water for me,
His shoeshine and perfect polish.
And the light only made sense to direct attention to the ripples in the water.
So, he came forward,
Opened his mouth and belted rotten,
Beautiful tufts of ulra-violet sound.
The lake seemed to caress the ivory echos of his voice,
Each note executed precisely,
Each page full of half notes on behalf of the executioner.
-P.S.