"Preludes drip from your pale slim fingers, Chopin, Do play once more that stirring polonaise. There, Liszt, do you not feel—you stupid moron— The fire it has? (To give the ass due praise.) Light me another cigarette, moi Frederic, And thrill us with your restless Waltz Caprice, (I should be busy writing books immortal Not wasting time on worthless fools like these.)" |