There's Arnold
With his back to me
Wandering down through an ill-lit street
I'm curious
And would like to entreat
Is it inspiration or self-defeat
And from the corner his figure fades
And should I follow or retrograde
There's Anton
With a furrowed brow
A crooked finger and non-plussed scowl
There's symmetry
He will soon endow
Crafting tone rows with his head faced down
If I seek pleasure in melody
Have I betrayed best tendencies
Oh Alban
We part our hair the same
Posing next to a drawer and frame
At 23 and two years of age
Your work is tasteful your life's urbane
As for the despot's who bring you down
A century later they're still around
And so I sit by the window sill
Feeling sad, the questions linger still
I'm trying to decide if it's fake or real
I'm all alone
In a noisy throng
Nameless and ageless, all strung along
Nobody else can name this song
Mispronunciations and words spelled wrong
At times like these I think I'm on my own
A new self-portrait of my own
