There is no good in writing it,
for no one cares to read;
no point in baking word-filled pies,
there’s no one here to feed.
There is no point in singing it,
for we have all gone deaf;
besides, no one remains who knows
a bass from treble clef.
There is no worth in painting,
for we’re all as good as blind,
and tend to favor style and flair
instead of good design.
There is no use in playing;
Why not sample? Why waste time?
Those who can tell the difference
are but few and quite sublime.
There is no good in writing it,
except to help preserve
a history beyond these times
that poetry deserves.
There is no point in singing it
except to save the voice
so in some future silence
those who wish, will have a choice.
There is no worth in painting,
save to safeguard fading skills
against the simple, quick and cheap.
If you don’t, no one will.
There is no use in playing
except that future museums
will not know about instruments
if all you can do is see them.
28 APR 2005
