He plucks the strings. The E's a little low
For comfort, harmonizing out of time
And out of sync -- the knowledge bank can't show
Coincidences. Moments cannot rhyme
At random, senses can't affiliate
And memory's a tricky bitch. The facts
Are hazy, officer; you know I hate
To guess. I need some strumming -- step on cracks
Egregiously and tune the mother up.
Let's get the venue humming: sold-out crowds,
Precocious fans, impatient ladies; sup,
They summarize, then break on us like clouds,
Amorphous, serious, accumulating
CD-sleeve lines to serenade our mating.
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