Spare a thought for the singer,
His song woven and sung from the heartstrings,
With care of a lace-maker’s dexterous fingers,
Teased from the bobbin to the flounce,
Each chosen adjective a picot stitched,
With all the warmth and touch of a besotted lover.
Spare a thought for the player.
Whose ear is tuned to the tremulous harmony,
Whose voice flatters soft melody,
Whose eyes only one sight to see,
When music and word form in lyrical ecstasy,
With eyes focused solely to thee.
Spare a thought for what could’ve been,
Had not a cynical age come between,
Had not resentment spoiled the minstrel’s song,
Had not scorn and mockery come along,
No more will the minstrel sing his song,
The lover’s serenade is silenced….done.
Now do searching lovers meet,
Upon crass “dating aps”, self-flattering tweets,
Distrust, disgust, so many vulgar greets,
Sneering, sniggering dark-corner creeps,
Giving lie to what true love does seek,
No lover’s songs serenading sweet,
The scent of love has gone rancid….the minstrel weeps!