opus bogus

'Twas a fitful sleep that churned
This heady spiral that hooked and turned
Heart a-flutter; mind a-butter:
And a Stranger that ignored the warning's stutter

Then temperate beats stomped overhead,
And bloss'ming notes danced across the mead
Pitch perfect; tones intact:
For a Singer that tickled the intellect

Soon it sprung forth a garden and spring,
But sibilance struck this haven with the Skeptic sing:
"All legs on board! O, bless the Lord!
To not suffer these flowers one can't afford!"

Filled with sighs the breve rest invaded the field,
Yet before three intermissions could be filled-
The Sojourner abandoned script,
Became crypt, (reappeared-
Bow!) A rose corset attached to the hip

Ah, the true conductor has finally made—
A wakening stroke, on the staff lines, with a blade
Sibilant-minded (surely not vivace), an utter show of grace;
Therein lied much silent grimace

—For a musicaux that lost its moment in place.