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Reminiscent of a Victorian pagoda
Wrought iron fretwork skirts the sides
No more the blast of fair trumpets
Clarinet and French horn besides

An echo to a vibrant era when
Fashion trod the way
Enchanting was the vision
A rather formidable display

Distant memories hang alongside cobwebs
No music to evoke sensations
Hungry weeds grow through the platforms
Lost in the mire of false dedications

Listen, softly floating in the hallowed breeze
Pitiful whispers of blues and beyond
Orchestral performance once divine
Composed in a lonely old song

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