There was once a juxtaposition of a silent mathematician,
hand in hand with a melody called fiction.
Fighting to be free, yet fleeing from fruition.
Unure in his conditionm, he is guided by her transition.

      This was never going to work.

Fiction's as ignorant as his judgement was missing.
She was vexed by his logic, and his rate of attrition.
Suddenly she see's him far from volition,
Whilst he hears something new - designing definition.

     The record plays softly

Finally he understands to feel free from inquizition,
is about more than just logic. It's about his ambition
He returns from his audition
Dressed well with suspicion

     Blood on his hands - the endeavour of reason.

Now filled with guilt, this once honourable statistician,
is dynamic and pretentious, it's impossible to miss him.
Because through a bad combination of radio emission,
sounds a shriek from the crowd's world's worst composition.