Boogy-Woogy-Woogy

The harp is gone: where did it go?
We will not harp anymore.
The strings, you hear
Have become unpredictable,
Cut into drums as they are,
Spaced out into each other’s lines,
Sailing past the limits of their sails,
Solely un-soled souls
To stride the deep. Growing up
From watery ravines,
Words like water-cresses
Have terrified them,
Descending as they are
Eagles to shriek with their claws
On the classical laws
(And we who pluck at them like saints
Grasp their precious flaws) --
The moral is music, absolute island,
Circuitous circuit to electric sees.