I think involuntarily upon a distant shore,

That placard of choice is miles away –

Sweet child, I wanted more

Than tranquil hope speckled with a superfluous sea,

Gaspard knew before us all of the tremulous roar

Of furled scarlet sheets, of violence galore.

Intransigent eyeglasses cover their souls.

With empty hands I offer you a multitude of pleas,

To throw aside the ivory cloak of pejorative disease.

They have built His altar; have heard His trumpet cry,

Then why does their mast falter against such haughty Seas?

Do we know what it is to watch the shrewder die?

I am telling you that tarmac cannot be mollified;

The certain source of anger will be asphalt, say my peers.

Hardened with a fallacy, an imprint that they tried.

To speak – perchance, to see – would prove a beneficial sight,

Rather than indulge in stains of victory and pride.

Let the colorful variance of the upright keys collide;

And now that Debussy has bowed, let Thelonious proceed.