Hands In Thought

HANDS IN THOUGHT Paganini, with his bony, white hands, In the graveyard, Playing for the dead What a thought! All that cold, weathered stone, The few leafless trees, What a diseased sort of scene And the great Italian violin virtuoso, So thin, so hook nosed, Courting Satan So they thought Hands of old grandfather disturb, Reminding the hour, Pointing up For sure, the fiddler, Weird, stick of a man, Was headed south, Or so they thought And so this crazy fiddler thinks, At his late hour, Hands hanging limp Rage? No Hands clasped in prayer? No Just a chuckle At the outrageous thought Of being no more Dave Austin