The Secret Sits
We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of knowsie.
Are we, and be
Unknown to us.
We roundly play.
The music airs,
We circle away.
The music sounds.
The beats, they drop.
We ring in rounds
Without a stop.
He wouldn't compose a cantata,
A symphony, song, or sonata:
The best of his best
Is a piece that's one rest
Played forte and with a fermata.
Though wondrous are the monuments of stone
That yet enjoy the splendor of a prime
Lasting for ages—spanning lengths of time
Wherein were seeded, birthed, and fully grown
Great nations, cultures long since buried, gone—
And stand them still (sides slanted as a rhyme)
In total rapture when the arid clime
Around them swirls a storm of dust hard-blown,
When these have worn to so much desert sand
The greatest of Man’s achievements will be extinct,
Not because these will henceforth cease to stand,
But since the kosmos will have forgotten the tinct
And brittle leaves with hieroglyphics inked,—
The works that Beethoven scribbled out by hand.
The ladie sits before the keys.
Her quiet posture doth belie
Her fingers busy activities.
They mix in mingling counterpoint,
With wealthy harmonie they disport,
They daunce with skill in evry joynt,
And doe with heauen's host consort.
And Master Philips I wo'd sweare
His sad pavan had neuer play'd
Better then plays the ladie there,
Sith sweeter music ne'er was made.
I've never ever ever heard
A song that's so terrific
At being worthless word for word
And potently soporific.