Scorched by Escort
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009

 

If there was a quire
Whos tones idly rose higher
Higher and higher and higher
For each and every year

If they into the heights spire
Until they rose to a level
No other ones could aquire
And the crituqies somewhat bedevil

This constantly obscene versery
Filled with bristeling bevel
The notes that flank and curses flee
But still the quires revel

A sound you can't hear, a sound you can't see
Because it is so high that it can't be heard
And with this tone strange to all humanity
They uttered a verse without spoken words

Noone could understand, nor could they sense
The power or beauty in those words in swift French
But did not the little man English in brew
Appriciate the foreign silence in cue

And how about the Spaniard sitting on a row
Did he not appriate the smooth and toneful flow
In a language he didn't speak, yet he could not hear
The notes that slowly eloped through the room, loud and clear