Jiieden

The Death of Music (evolution or creation?)

Simple songs strike the memory
Radio blue is keyed to harmony
Blessed jazz and broken riffs
Listen and the music lifts

Notes ink black find their place
On a Vienna central city terrace

Something jars

And drums pick up the beat

The child’s left behind

Corporate records haven’t a chance
And the sound revolution is over
Strings snap and verses stumble

Clothes unravel and sex conquers all
The drums build and the Aztecs fall
Nothing beats the gold
Which hears only what is sold

And there’s the problem
The cradle of music is blood
When rhythm kisses the veins
The old blue-blood fades.