Most people don’t keep pianos in their kitchen
Though with her it waits for her to cook up a tune
Some cover by somebody I wouldn’t know
It was not the Beatles, and if I wanted Beatles
I wouldn’t dare make light of the instrument,
I’m jealous, wishing I could have a piano in my kitchen,
too,
(I have one in my bedroom) where I fiddle with the keys,
Desperate to come up with anything remotely musical,
An inspired love song, or at least, a song I could hum
While I walked to and from work each day.
Music gets into people’s blood, they say
And anyone who keeps a piano where they eat
Must ingest musical notes like vitamin pill
Until their blood boils over with something close to music,
I wish I could make a meal of Mozart or Choplin
Or some other great artist, where I might get a bit of them
In my blood the way she clearly has.
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