That aint music!

"That's no muse"[sic].

Please

keep making them,

                 you sick.



Some will point

to the black' s hell on the street.

Hard and hollow,

their point,

to stop the `beat.

Please,

keep making them,



                 you sick.



Others will wish for the golden age

when we knew rock well,

and a freshly pressed suit could only mean you

moved from door,

to dinner bell.

Please,

keep making them,



                 you sick.



Some will claim that it moves the feet,

and kills the brain,

but at night I would sleep

and dream that I might

hear the music by keeping my ear to the street

like a conch from the deep.

So please keep on

making them,



                 you sick,



while accepting the fact

that some will only find noise where we find music.