nicholas coteus


Dulcet tones on city nights,


Come from tubes out a bottle.


His lungs, they say, no longer work,


His steps, they are a waddle.


A broken man most certainly,


And one without a home.


Yet golden horn held to his lips,


His notes could render stone,


To blink back tears, and sudden fears,


That with time marching on,


There will come a day, not far away,


Where his notes, there will be none.