My xylophone is silent,
All friends adore It's sound,
But there's a time to be untouched,
I'm tired, though I try to clutch
The sound which my tool has done,
It doesn't like to stay, but only run,
I tense my ears, there is deepest hush,
What have I got, just fragile brush.
It's going back and forth through time,
I'm master of my dream and slave of dime,
I used to like my hair blackness,
But brush has shown that it's reckless.
And now I'm trying to forget my xylophone,
Perhaps, I will succeed when turn to stone,
Don't feel a piece of shame, it is the way,
I buy and sell the xylophone most every day.