A Piano can be spicy,
it is to the musky tavern
above it out back
it is never to early, dawn.
And one rising sun are teary eyes
and here is that one, 'Cinnamon girl,
full of nice, she is singing to me.
Swinging me back and
forth to that special place,
making up for lost time
down the long stretch of
each dusty trail of my youth.
A child once again is a man
sitting now there upon her piano,
the room full of base
She mingles and smiles as the strings.
Help is her holding me up
with her strong small feet
is a matter of pressing a petal
better is hers
I look as one other
whom smiles when she sings
her sweet songs, they are!
My back betrays me now,
as the keys remind me
of once and how all the cotton balls
there opened up before it rained
and loud thunder struck ivory keys as dark as night the sky lit up for he was near the one who played.
Grand all those nosy paramours,
the tinkling piano
key on off each key our guide
looking up at the sky, she plays.
I think that compassion
it is not for the vain.
While that new trampoline has tested me past the point of any mans,
her song surrendered too endurance.
