In a church on a sunday
(neither matters to the story)
I in silence watched a man
In 6/8 time waving his hand.
His care to mark each beat sung
Betrayed pride in his rhythmless motion.
He held the last note of each line,
Vainly pulling from downturned eyes.

Later, in conversation with those who know,
He’ll profess love of music and boast his own
Skill in conducting; nobody will correct him.
No, he’ll leaveΒ in delusion and they in dim
Tones and social shadows will guess
At the frailties of character and human weakness
Which his musical shortcomings clearly denote.
All the while none will see the nature of what I just wrote.

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