In pantaloons with toe-curled shoes and mask,
Sashaying through the glade he strummed his lute.
His madrigals ahum, a pleasant task,
Such joys in simple song and motley suit...
I fear they'd strain an ear, just to hear,
The melody so dulcetly demure.
A gently lay, so soothing, pure and clear.
Bestilled the soul and honored times of yore.
Cute lute won't suit! The guitar rules today.
Now add the amps to make the walls rebound.
Sweet air was where the fireflies once would play,
Replaced by waves of noxious smoke and sound.
Those days of wine and roses didn't last.
Methinks that precious phase has passed too fast!