Poetry

First  Draft: 09/11/04
Second Draft: 09/12/04
Third  Draft: 09/13/04

Thanks to Asma and Aaron
for complaining that my rhymes sucked
(and suggesting new ones)

Kilroy's Last Song

there was an old orchestral hall
  a massive, temperate, oblate ball
    where lived the men who learned to call
and strong, young kilroy most of all

daring kilroy played a song
  that other men have said was wrong
    its sound was new, its strength was strong
and kilroy loved it all along

kilroy's song was kilroy's own
  when first he played it, newly known
    he blew it on his flute of bone
a song that has since grown

the song made him like men of old
  like ancient sculptures made of gold
    and kilroy's music from its folds
from metal lovely, bright and bold

though kilroy drew away from it
  and tried to make the music fit
    to the notes he'd rather hit
the gold remained (a little bit)

and in time the music spread
  played by men on others' heads
    struck by mallets made of lead
until the struck were dead

for the song now showed its spice
  the gold of old that was so nice
    had now been mixed with kilroy's vice
and so the song now had a price

yet kilroy loved the song he played
  even though his playing strayed
    and the golden part would fade
from the errors kilroy made

until one day a song was din
  a song of iron, brass, and tin
    and not a speck of gold within
by a man of kilroy's kin

kilroy did not like the song
  he felt he knew the notes were wrong
    though it was new, and hard and strong
he despised it all along

so he told the other men
  that they all should count to ten
    and if the kinsman did not bend
to save their gold, the song must end

others said he had the right
  to sing a song as any might
    and raise the pitch to any height
no matter what, they should not fight

kilroy knew what they did not
  the other man was kilroy-taught
    and he possessed what kilroy sought
and so the slaughter must be fought

kilroy left to change his song
  to one he'd thought of all along
    of steel, and iron-- tough and strong,
to help him fight to right a wrong

so he blew the battle horn
  a hurtful thing, of crook and thorn
    that ended only at the morn
to see his kinsmen's body torn

his duty done, a silent hall
  waited for his golden call
    silence lest a pin should fall
and kilroy shocked the most of all

for when he blew his song of old
  he found his flute had grown too cold
    that he had fallen from the fold
and heavy lead replaced his gold

his song, once changed, was gone forever
  those golden links lost from his treasure
    the fates had spun, and they had measured
and now had cut, with cold displeasure

kilroy damned for wrong he righted
  for what he'd had and had so blighted
    the sacred night that he had lighted
his love for gold is unrequited

and as he lives, the others die
  they can run, but cannot hide
    from kilroy's jealous, greedy eye
a pair of springs that never dry

until the hall has lost its tone
  bitter void from silence grown
    life reaches back, its home unknown
as kilroy, the last man, dies alone