Saturday, October 03, 2009
Poetry demands a man with a special gift for it, or else one with a touch of madness in him.
Here is a blast from the [recent] past: Ezra tickling the ivories [ooh err missus].
I have been trying to encourage a taste for Chopin, but he is veering dangerously into honkeytonk territory. If he stays on this course, he's gonna end up playing in some flea-bitten house of ill repute somewhere in East Baton Rouge.