The canvas, 3 by 4,
No longer the pristine white it once was
Serves as my new Pensieve
Immortalizing my thoughts
Capturing this moment's musings
And so the strokes of the brush paint a picture:

A player and his instrument
His hand on her neck
His instrument, so scarred
Is the object of adoration
To the hounds who lap up
Her hopeless melodies

The player himself the apple
Of the eyes of the multitude, the throng
Considers his instrument unworthy
With a casual owner's indifference.
Can't say I was never wrong
But some blame rests on you

Work and play they're never okay
To mix the way we do