All hope is in the countenance,
In moderation’s calming glint.
In slowing tunes to cover panic,
Slackening the insistent manic.
Sly carnage deafens, not held in check,
Two are out but the slugger’s on deck.
The closer’s shield has bloodied of late,
The bookie’s odds are not so great.
A drum is beaten by the clown.
Verismo raids another town.
Jealousy’s husband finds its slut,
Columbine’s throat must soon be cut.
Song is a dying chestnut tree,
Its fruitless grace now forced to flee.
We must make do with peanuts at cost,
Knowing hull is forever lost.
