My symphony— Was poorly conducted. I saw you there, at the premiere, Waiting in the wings for the clouds to appear… While I hung off the fire escape— At the cusp of the threshold of sound… My darling was murdered, Not in the hands of the public, But in those of the performers. The maestro was drunk, And sunken into thralls of torment— The walls were painted whitely dormant… The cellists were drunk, The trumpets were drunk, The entire wind section was totally drunk… I was drunk… Everyone was drunk. And the timpani, Played uninterrupted, And then all at once—when the tempo was struck— The tingling bats Erupted in silence! Like the dumb crowd, had they had been honest… Yet the thrill was enough to erode them in cheers Not once, not twice But between every movement Like cowbells in the score… The opening stirrings, Trilled bravado galore But after that point The rest was a bore. I am like my symphony— The two of us are in sympathy. My mother used to say to me, You always start out so strong… It’s only later that you always go wrong. I embody entropy. The concert hall Had commissioned the piece, And much to their gall it was poorly received. They said if it’s music It’s music from Hell But in my defense— It was not conducted well. I shall never compose again…