Peter Von Poehl

My trumpets are down
The wind callously composed
The guitar is gone
And the rest of the band transposed

But I stick to single notes
And things I understand
I'm still a stranger in this land

So I put on some Parliament
And I'm walking my soul
For another block
Picking arguments
With the bills on the wall
While the beat goes on

My conductor is deaf
And the melody has been mislaid
The theatre is locked up
And the last bar has been played

I rush through an empty alley
With the wind playing behind
The revolutionary kind

My drums lost their beat
And the singers have aching throats
Stamping their feet
Quite incorruptible

But do I hear the trumpets rise
And pages being turned
Maybe that's why I'm this concerned

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