There are paces I remember:
with life rife, then tempo change—
accelerando to lesser. . .
slow-move-on: it seems so strange.
First we race through the first movement;
I’m loving it when that still baton falls
for a heady kind of rhythm
with my fife. . .the concert hall.

But it’s then when I discover
my “compadre” who plays the flute
switched pages—he’s such a meanie.
And the sheet I turn to is moot.
He’s taken me in the wrong direction
’cause in front of me sits the wrong score.
There is something of the sadist about him.
With my fife the wrong notes soar.

He’s taken me in the wrong direction;
I sit there and stare at the wrong score.
I would love to stand up to go and clout him
with my fife—him smote and sore.