Every moment he sung.
There was a crowd to wave.
Through his nerves blood pumps from his heart.
His joy is the music.
His lovers are the instruments.
His awful moment are when the psalmist fades.
When his strength eats away.
As his sadness fights for joy
Once again he heard shreds,
his eyes filled with flood.
He lean on his violin as cold embrace his fold.
The morning dews breath through his mouth.
His eyes so white as wool
then suddenly he begins,
his hands wavering.
His body vibrating.
He coils his guitar with sounds that can make ten pounds.
In his sorrow joy emerge.
As he beats the band of rhyme.
He wakes up with a smile.
Her legs crossed about his breast.
Together they sang.
Together they make an awful noise.
His heart is melted into her sounds.
Her sounds are planted on his hands.
So did he make his money,
though she may sound funny.
But tonight was not so!!
The spectators clapped!!
As they become his crowd!!
So he gains his fame.
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