I think reluctantly upon a distant shore,
That placard of choice is miles away –
Sweet child, I wanted more
Than tranquil hope speckled with a superfluous sea,
Gaspard knew before us all of the tremulous roar
Of the furled scarlet sheets, and of violence galore.
Intransigent eyeglasses cover their souls.

With empty hands I offer you a multitude of pleas,
To throw aside the iv’ry cloak of pejorative disease.

I am telling you that tarmac cannot be mollified;
The certain source of anger will be asphalt, say my peers.
Hardened with a fallacy, an imprint that they tried.
To speak – perchance, to see – would prove a beneficial sight,
Rather than indulge in stains of victory and pride.
Let the colorful variance of the upright keys collide;
And now that Debussy has bowed, let Thelonious proceed.

They have built His altar, have heard His trumpet cry,
Do we know what it is to watch the shrewder die?