Gross Fugue

Da Da Da Dum!

Enough of that, look at this.

And his confounded, stinking piss-pot

Swills overboard as he pounds the groaning keys.

Can you just sign this?

What?  What?

Pianissimo glides into speed-flight arpeggios, and a spark

Lights up his faded rheumy eyes.

This new melody, this new…

Is it new? There’s an echo, an echo of…

Just there, here’s a quill.

He’s carried out half an hour later, drunk with the thump

That felled him.

You know they’ll have you for this!

Says his shrunken landlady, secretly loving his couldn’t give a toss,

What’s left of his joi de vivre.

Later that night,

In a corner hub of the Strangled Boar,

He’s eating alone, cold sausage and a stale hunk,

Of what used to be bread.

The Rhinish wine isn’t as foul as it usually is,

But he puts that down to rotten buds.

He plunges his gnarled hand,

Into his one pocket.

Pulls out a crumpled piece of hastily drawn, seeming

Codes, squiggles, scratchings.

Because there’s still time,

To strike dumb a human heart,

Even when you’re nearly done,

With lack of loving,

Because for Ludwig Van.

That’s where the music comes from.