The bass pedals on the old organ don’t play,
Pumping out an old orangutan’s wheezing,
But the high notes sizzle like windpipes freezing
As the clock reminds us of time’s constant delay.
Rolling his shoulders with the beat, our musician
Has the musicality of a mannikin,
And the dolor of a flowering rubber plant.
His pet bat keeps the studio free of ant
And rat, its wingbeats synchronized with the clock.
There are no works of art on the tear-stained walls
And no pattern on the rug but a reddish flock.
Now our musician sings with a raptor’s calls
For blood or flesh or warning of the death of sound.
The bat chimes in on a gleeful two-part round.
