A Piano

a Piano can be Spicy, it is to the musky tavern above it out back it is never to early, dawn. And one rising sun are teary eyes and here is that one, 'Cinnamon girl, full of nice, she is singing to me. Swinging me back and forth to that special place, making up for lost time down the long stretch of each dusty trail of my youth. A child once again is a man sitting now there upon her piano, the room full of base she mingles and smiles as the strings. Help is her holding me up with her strong small feet is a matter of pressing a petal better is hers I look as one other whom smiles when she sings her sweet songs, they are! My back betrays me now, as the keys remind me of once and how all the cotton balls there opened up before it rained and loud thunder struck ivory keys as dark as night the sky lit up for he was near the one who played. Grand all those nosy paramours, the tinkling piano key on off each key our guide looking up at the sky, she plays. I think that compassion it is not for the vain. While that new trampoline has tested me past the point of any mans, her song surrendered too endurance.