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Written: October 20, 2023, 

If an opera cannot be played by an organ grinder, it's not going to achieve immortality. By Thomas Beecham
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Only a rival who never yields may alter reality,
From birth to death, beats thrive—no mortality.
Crashing core causes a cosmic climax of chaos, 
Fierce floods float the forlorn fable of pathos. 

Dwellings were buried by a conundrum.
The slope has swallowed the humdrum.
Dusk of the mind is gingerly complete.
Gazing at crimson flies worn rilling feet

An ancient quiet trail—for waves and wind.
Ragged timbre limbs—cracks are left behind.
Tombstones had been raised from the quayside
The last organ grinder and another army replied.

Over lyrical, his weary fingers can play guerrillas, 
The last organ grinder is a throwback to bygone eras.
Camarilla would gather heralds, full of delight,
While fiercely turning—crank with all his might.

Forum from which fantasies fly and faith flourish
The sounds that the organ grinder may nourish.
He sang songs of suffering, whimsy, and anguish,
Sopping a range of feelings across—till languish.

Rumors raced to spread slander in solid deceit,
Selfish ghost-face snitch won a vexed word beat.
Lief spins fearfully. Cover up, ladies and youngsters,
Slaying in session, straddling on wings of musters.

A Walkyrie-lanced loop loom is a lethal lethe lie,
Blood dough whispers emerged and could decry.
Tarnished thrash tittles—timorous tonic ties taught,
A fabric-picked spying plot caught by a grim sought.

Saltwater swindler screams sought signs of a spider
Gloomy guile grins gushes on ghastly organ grinder.
It's the witching hour, and a trigger finger is itching,
I heard awful news and saw empathy fuel snitching.

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