Triumph

Heart quavering
Fingers quavered
He rakes his first chord
In his heart a non-composed composure
On the surface a Greek Jesus dressed mostly in
Motley.
He belches his song with nervous pride
The crowd of buds scream a dislike.
Heart quavered
Fingers lapsed
He strums his last chord
In his heart a fierce satisfaction
On the surface a Greek Jesus dressed mostly in
Motley.