Classic Poem

His fingers press upon the keys as though
His hands were dripping thick and heavy sirup.
The sweetness does not cloy; it seems to stir up
All sorts of greasy sentiments that grow
Maudlin and morbid. Tears begin to flow;
Young girls breathe heavily or sob unchidden;
Matrons and spinsters dream of things forbidden.
He piles the pathos on — adagio .

The concert ends. The powder-puffs come out.
A dying buzz — and people go about
Their idleness or drudgery as before. . .
And in his taxi no one hears him say,
" I'll have to dye my hair; it's almost gray.
There was a time they used to weep much more. "