He sits alone, hunched, as though at the keyboard
With only music in his mind, his peace is a sured.
I envy the composer, who lives in a perfect world,
Blind and deaf to heinous tales about to unfurl.
Newspapers remain unread, his thinking is of purity profound.
To be unleashed, a sweet serenade, I’ll be bound;
Or a waltz to glide us across polished floors
Let others face the evil news of bloody wars.
The composer is complete with a melody in his head
He thinks of children at Christmas time, and a tear is shed.
He writes melodies of tranquil lakes and rose gardens, moreover,
He now creates music of a girl, yearning for her lover.
Nothing nasty must ever disturb Henry, in his artistic revery.