There's a bone man conducting the orchestra,
Waving his bone baton,
A dowel of ulna from a long dead composer,
In the hand of this relic of the Italian Lully.
He swings his wand,
In a time signature replete with evil portent,
Driving the deranged orchestra,
Full of dementia and mayhem,
To a score written,
By the devil himself.
The orchestra plays,
They blow and they bow,
They drum and they finger and fidget,
They render such sounds,
As one cannot bear,
And they play on in this way,
Once and again,
Continuously,
In the center of my own deluded genius,
Inhabiting my mind,
As my mind haunts my body,
They are there all day,
Right where they belong.
And I wouldn't give them up,
For anything.
