There’s a woman
Who stands upon heels
The height of Denver
And when she walks
First her hips, then her chest
Sway, sway, sway

I ask her if she’s ever fallen down
And she says sometimes
But never enough

When she walks
The avenue quivers with her touch
And the people look at her with shining eyes
They admire her so much

There’s a woman who never listens to us speaking
She simply smiles, looking into our eyes
And we believe
She knows exactly what we’re thinking

And our incessant monologue
Plays incessantly on
And the woman stands
Fascinated by our moving tongue

There’s a man
Who makes music
In the setting sun
He sets his objects so carefully
And lets them fall
One by one.
The piano players
And the clarinet artists
Refuse to call it music
They simply go on trapped in
A cage of notes and lines and ink

And we wonder what he could do
If the world stopped to hear
Gravity taking its toll
On everything so near

But the man, humbled by his sounds
Simply smiles
And passes by
To make music in the Denver sky

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