A Conductor's Hand

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He was a lonely soul,

And his only friend,

Was his radio.

He’d turn it up and listen to the notes,

The sweet melodies.

Sing along to the ones he knew, dream of life a new,

For he had a conductors hand,

And he waved with grace,

Leading his troops with bittersweet command,

A look of blissful insanity on his face.

Soon he was an expert,

His subjects trusting and kind,

He ruled with a vengeance,

But also with piece of mind.

His kingdom prospered,

Filled with sweet song.

A crown on the great musicians head,

Enabled him to solo.

His orchestra with harps and guns,

Followed like a plague,

But even great artists ideas can become vague.

His conductor’s baton,

Topped with his flag,

Was a symbol to all as he explored,

That his notes so wonderfully sweet,

Must be obeyed and not ignored.

He paraded all about the land, his malicious smile on his face,

And those who did not appreciate the sound,

Perished under his conductors hand.

A symphony was created,

With these orchestras at his disposal,

For the best voices can be found within his kingdom.

He had a conductor’s hand,

And he waved with grace,

Leading his troops with bittersweet command,

A look of blissful insanity on his face,

But soon, his music became stained with red,

No longer symphonizing just to defend,

With an angry demeanor he scratched with his quill,

Quite oblivious to writing his will.

And his troops they pillaged,

Unawares to his hideous ways.

With heir harps there was murder and slaughter,

The sound of gunshots became a hymn of foul notes,

Whole, half, quarter.

They saw nothing of the horizon they scanned,

For he had a conductors hand.

He wreaked foulness into the soil,

Which grows into the trees,

His malice, danger, and toil,

Seemed to stir the very leaves.

For he had a conductors hand,

And he waved with grace,

Leading his troops with bittersweet command,

A look of blissful insanity on his face.

And though his eyes were bloodshot and worn,

He still found time to write,

To him composing a piece,

Was better done at night,

Where he could not see the light disappear from his victims eyes.

His shadow, a shroud cast over the city,

His people cowered in fear,

His wrath was so dreaded and so grim,

But even the most evil can find their hymn.

His subjects, not daring to rise from their bows,

About to scurry back to the ashes the wind arouse,

But he threw down his crown.

It landed with a crash,

He took his money, his wealth,

And gave it all way.

He took their harps and destroyed the abominations.

A melody so sweet escaped his lips,

The people spines stood erect,

And their mouths agape.

For he had a conductors hand,

And he waved with grace,

Leading his people with love, all part of his band,

A look of blissful death on his face.





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