At times I sit and ponder,
If music were women,
Would men wish and wonder,
Would we try to understand?
Oh, the complexities it would bring!
With each and every note,
Every word we sing,
This is not how it was planned.
The cut-throat reality of rock,
Sewn together with guitars and drums,
Mouthing off bout this or that round the clock,
She would not make your mother glad.
What of the smooth and silky melody,
Dressed in satin and lace,
Breaking into unseen clarity,
Streaming out the brass in those Jazz hands.
The raw, red-blooded sexuality,
Rough in word and deed,
Essentially the taken liberty,
Hip-hopped and offhand.
Alas, none of these I see fit,
But there is one remaining,
Perhaps the only one I'll permit,
The love child of genius and wonderland.
Yes, hidden in history and steeped in judgement,
Love, passion, brilliance personified,
Elegant, yet not overbearing, always triumphant,
Fit for kings and queens and me, the classic answer.
Always, grand.
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