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August 2, 2005 - A poem about Art

Bad Gig.

I can’t hear the guitar
and the cymbals sound shrill.
The bass is just a mumble
and it saps my goodwill.
All the vocals sound bizarre
and nothing fits the bill,
and it makes me want to grumble
about these musical ills.
Never wanted to be a big star,
just jump above the mill
but all I do is stumble -
watch my pride go downhill.
But the next gig will be better
and I will recognise my own skill
and these vain doubts will crumble,
when again I feel the thrill.


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