Could I conduct you with a flute?
Could you play trombone sans a suit?
Is baton waving with my arms
Necessity for Bach and Brahms?

Would jeans or tracksuit so offend
To cause the notes to break or bend?
Do shiny shoes impact the pitch?
Do taut bow ties do aught but itch?

Could one less trumpet cause the brass
To sound too hollow, weak and crass?
Would changing colours of their strings
Impinge the sounds of violins?

Would triangles still work as squares?
Do snare drums also work as snares?
Could pins be instruments, if dropped?
Is it not time this nonsense stopped?

Sudoku Simon
Plays “The Witness” — Beams switch on
For mental fitness!

You gave them all hope
When hope was their need
You saved them from the rope
And you planted the seed
That freedom was won
That the future was theirs
All the bad times were gone
There would be no more tears

And the planes overhead
And the boots on the ground
And the guns in their hands
Made a beautiful sound
And the women they cried
And their children ran free
And their men were alive
And life was as it should be

The years long dragged on
And the naysayers said
And the green men agreed
With a nod of their head
The future was signed
With a flick of a wrist
And one last hope resigned
And was lost in the mist

And the planes overhead
Took the boots from the ground
As the guns in their hands
Made a terrible sound
And the women they cried
For their children to be free
For their men to be alive
For life to be as it had been

And the women they cried
For their children to be free
For their men to be alive
For life to be as it had been

All things must have a counterweight;
Each Yin, a Yang; each soul, a mate;
An arbitrator to the form,
A becalmed eye to quell the storm —

And LOVE! Oh LOVE!  You too shall find
That you and GRIEF are kin combined;
That one comes not without its twin,
For one to end, one must begin —

And so poor mortals face this plight:
To love AND grieve, or flee the fight?
For LOVE may be the greatest pleasure,
But LOVE and GRIEF are no half-measure.

Wake me not from solitude
To tell me I am alone;
Place no cup of kindness here
Beneath my silent throne;
Lift your gaze not heavenward,
Look not unto the sky,
For I am one lost to this world,
For I was born to die

Break no stone, nor cut no bough,
And trouble not the soil;
Make no mark to why or how
Suspended was my toil;
Bring no breath, no uttered word,
No sentiment of joy,
For I am one lost to this world,
For I was born to die

Life without regrets
Defeats the point — Place your bets,
Risk the whole **** joint

Bitcoin wallets fold
Without a din — Alms of old
Rattle ne’er a tin