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Death of a Musician
The music,
It plays,
For the very last time.
The arpeggios sound,
The last of their kind.
The key has 9 sharps,
And the tone,
It is flat.
The musician gets tired,
And throws in his hat.
His horn he lays down,
Never to be recovered,
The music in his soul,
Has fallen into slumber.
The score burns,
A white hot flame.
The tip jar tips,
How ironic,
a name.
The show it is over,
For the very last time,
As the old man crumbles,
Piece by piece,
All in time.

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