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What melancholy magic
Has turned a multitude into mush
Mandibles drop from shock
An old lady at high altitude
Whispering hush
She slips off her white shoes
And grabs her tenor pacifier
From its stand
Thirty half steps to the microphone
Smile on her face
Flower in her hand
Oh how a crowd can melt
When they've been dealt
Such a deliciously delicate blow
By a barefooted fairy
Not with a clang but a whisper
Totally stealing the show
Fools desire distraction
And not take to heart
Their faces to their gadgets fall south
Ignoring the beauty of a fog on a hill
And a kitten with a mouse in its mouth
A motley mob settles down
And there's hardly a frown
As the air in the temple turns to mist
A spotlight, a mark and a cleanse of the throat
And her microphone gently is kissed
You can hear a boot lace
And a speck of dust taste
As the babe bravely stared down the herb
But she played not a note
And only one moment spoke
These simple and poignant five words
You people are totally absurd
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