His orchestra is the nursing home,
His pulse rate bleeps like a metronome.
The nurse explains the effects of the stroke,
As the violins soar, he hums and he croaks.
The drop of the drip keeps his tune strict in time,
Farewells from loved ones as bells start to chime.
‘He’s lost all response on the left of his brain’,
The music still flowing as he goes insane.
He declares that he’s written a symphony,
Just where doctors play Trumpet and Timpani.
The stethoscope beats like the sound of a drum,
He sings from Bedlam as his body goes numb.
A flutter of flutes as his soul mate she wails,
The sea of musicians is where he will sail.
Wild flailing arms as he tries to conduct,
‘He’s having a fit’ the Doctor deducts.
Andante then Lento the symphony slowing,
The violins quiet but the flutes are still growing.
A final chord plays, as the orchestra cease,
but not a soul hears his last masterpiece.
– Max Miller