What melancholy magic

Has turned a multitude into mush

Mandibles drop from shock

An old lady at high altitude

Whispering hush

She slips off her white shoes

And grabs her tenor pacifier from its stand

Thirty half steps to the microphone

Smile on her face

Flower in her hand

Oh how a crowd can melt

When they've been dealt

Such a deliciously delicate blow

By a barefooted fairy

Not with a clang but a whisper

Totally stealing the show

Fools desire distraction

And not take to heart

Their faces to their gadgets fall south

Ignoring the beauty of a fog on a hill

And a kitten with a mouse in its mouth

A motley mob settles down

And there's hardly a frown

As the air in the temple turns to mist

A spotlight, a mark and a cleanse of the throat

And her microphone gently is kissed

You can hear a boot lace

And a speck of dust taste

As the babe bravely stared down the herb

But she played not a note

And only one moment spoke

These simple and poignant five words

You people are totally absurd.