Quasimodo, Songwriter

Quasimodo, Songwriter

Vaulted ceilings lording over
Vaunted gilded statues
Vacant podium expectant

In this somber grotto
A cathedral phantom vexing
Fingers prying vital organ
Praying verse and melody
Refraining from comraderie
One plus none is summed

Grand crescendos
Haunting echoes
Bishop thus awakened
Bumbles down the stairs
"Bestricken Son
The night is done
Move up to the belfry dais
Ring the bell and greet the day's
Ever rising sun"

Quasimodo nods and rises
Handing over heavily
Music for the weighty masses
Then ascends, allowed a loud
Resounding public sound
To anyone awake

Enhancing stone and pigeons with
The simple stooping of the meek
Beak to cheek to cheek to eave
He follow now a stony stare
Entreats the vaulted stone to share
"Who's that wondrous humming girl?"

Pigeons just chuckle
Knowing noises on the ground
No caws for alarm

Hoping neighbors spout grotesque

Possession of the answer
Gutter creatures only speak
In language harsh and guttural

In splashing wind and slashing rain
A cloudless morning entertains
No answers, only choice remains
He must go down in person

(Without child he's personless
Per son, per se in other ways
Some say, personally
He's little of himself
He lives for something else
Carving lyrics starves attention)

So he goes and passes Bishop
"Son, the streets have woken now
All and all and more about
Are you sure to venture out?"
"Of this I find I find no doubt"
Humming wonder on his tongue

Ponderous then on cobblestones
Street on which he's only pondered
Pebbled seeking settles on
Something slightly out of light
(Just like Quasimodo's life)
A mugger rises up and runs

A knife is piercing vital organs
Blood in somber tessellations
Kneeling, pulsing with his thumb
Discerning but a whisper's hum
"She shall not thus be undone!"

Her spirit empties
So he fills her up with song
Audience at last