nicholas coteus

Untitled

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.

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