When pianofortes try to be sitars
one quickly learns there are too many strings,
the music limps, it has no soaring wings
to bear it to the realm of noble stars.
A thousand glasses tinkle in the bars
when a small angel lifts her voice and sings
telling of life and of the myriad things
that touch our hearts and leave upon them scars.
We aren't supposed to stray beyond the lines
that a mad culture in the sand has writ;
for surely in the foreign there lives pain.
Still we ignore the sad and plaintive whines,
rejoice both in our freedom and our wit
and are most thankful for the autumn rain.