If you go out this evening to a concerto,
Do not wear an evening dress or tuxedo.
Go there barefoot with the heart of a hobo.
No shows of luxury on lease in a long limo,
For you are to hear the misfortune of a solo
A stranger once struck out of souls’ ghetto.
He was you living on two staves of sorrow,
One for the left hand and one for its shadow
Groping for the keys to salvation on a piano.
Hungry and haunted by dreams of a mango,
He heard via the hallucinations of fake vino
A music that knew him like a fantasy fellow.
Back then yet his friend stood on four paws,
Faithful to folly to that anonymous maestro.
Recall this today as you hear this old tempo.
It is music born from the heart of an inferno.
Hush the claims of a music for the elite & co,
For it belongs to the heart possessed by awe,
As it listens to this song freer than cash flow.
Do not try to be that hipster clever virtuoso
Critic with a stance for class below art’s law.
Sit down and accept once to hear incognito
The music that is crying for the hearts’ hero.
There is no need to dress as a refined gigolo,
For the band is playing the ugly us we know.
As a rose rises from manure’s stench or glow,
So does art’s beauty from a thing so shallow
As the perfection of a heart, void and hollow,
Crying so you never have to, come tomorrow.
Now come to this orchestra ready to undergo,
Humbled on knees, the memory of a concerto.