The Violin City

The Violin City 

They strut, they stroll

Through alleys of urgent scales

They walk tunefully, holding their bows

Through the meandering tuneful wails

To light their way they kick forth lanterns

Out of tune, in tune

As the corners are hugged by abrupt phantoms

The sounds accompany the bitter gaze of the moon

They wander on through harmonic echoes

Playing on as the fog besieges

They click their heels to invisible rhythm

Playing on through the city’s ancient vestiges

Bohemian behaviour does not exist

Diets, health, moral sensitivities

Catatonic attitude causes a mist

Of ambiguity, of complete obscurity

There is no order, there is no plan

Merely law as ordered as notation

There is no structure, there is no gain

There is only musical damnation

I strut, I stroll

Through boulevards of jazz keys

I walk tunefully, clutching my bow

Through percussion without reprieve

There is always someone playing a chord

For there is no want of diversity

There is always the threat of discord

For pride is found in playing dirty

The gods look down, Bach, Chopin, Paginini

They wonder at the works they left

The world is insane

Their sounds bereft

Of need, of solace,

Through haunting tunes

The masses have been seduced

By the incomprehensible need for noise

Who needs light when currency is sound

The pale glow of malnourished skin

Who needs silence when it is below the ground

The malleable constant din

I strut, I stroll

Through alleys of bitter notes

I walk tunefully, clutching my bow

Through the fearful remnants of my instrument’s quotes

The walls are vandalised by countless scores

Names of those who love and hate

The idea of silence is a threatening bore

Clefs, dots, ties, and of course, the beat

Addicts listen content

There is no such thing as out of key

As notes pretend to be your friend

This barrage is everything to me

Forever a prelude without end

The lanes will always be alive

Forever unwilling to bend

Until the crescendo nears an end

The Violin City will be evermore

Its unending, quivering tempo

For all of its inhabitants know the score.

That this will always be so

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