The rough beast slouches
then the rough beast sways.
(He is looking very rough these days.)
Tottering on his padded heels,
would you imagine that he feels
at this moment loved and trusted
while his face seems
thoroughly rusted?
Do they say when he is now talking
about a golfer's pink putter:
"At least he doesn't stutter?"
Or when he obscenely molests
a poorly-adjusted mic,
will they call him a playful, little tyke?
I will remember when music had charms
to sway a wounded beast--at least
those around him thought so
and so played titanically on.
One day the music will play him off,
and we will be relieved
that he is gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment