in golden harpsichords.
But the lines
are splintered boards.

You Speak
in bubbling champagne.
But the rhymes
clog up my drain.

You speak
in sparkling diamond dew.
But the jingle
is leftover stew.

You speak
in orange, crimson blossoms.
But the refrain
lie dead as possums.

You speak
and the notes flow like a song
to the dance of Paris, France.
And I ‘d like to believe you.
The chorus is beautiful.
But you never follow through.