The power of a broken-down masterpiece/ each of it breathing and pulsating of its own chosen accord. As this nEaTlY displaced piano-player plays
Of his own chosen accord-/

The only ever goodness-of-game that he TRULY knows of- with his PROFESSIONALLY TwiStEd fingers mercilessly bleeding at the feel – these interspersed people meaning to believe —- —

In the power of mUsIcAl prestige, awhile these other negligent souls mEanDer a little father on over..
Outside yet again and distantly deceptive.. and NECKING TO THE END… these blue-collar bottom dollar bottles

Of Unashamed and shackled-to-their-bones sweet ((and subbed by someone)) Bourbon Whiskey… “neat!”

And gripped by griping teeth which press for a smile — “kindly, please.”