The composer

To whomst is pucking at thine heart strings

To whomst do I owe the pleasure

Tis the one lovingly playing my heart like violin like harp

The rhythmic strumming strumming strumming of their hands

The liquid liquid flowing from fret to fret

To whomst is the composer

To whomst do I love

The urn of my untuned wirery heart strings

The toughened muscle heart of mine

To where hath my love left to

To whomst hath they gone

For when shall I hear their songs again

By CL

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