My name is music, and I'm a universal language.
I'm a bandage for wounds made of soothesounds commanded
and handed quite candidly out by romantics
and realists alike, as if both took a stand
to say "this is the one thing we share on this planet".
The places I'll take us in less than no paces
are spaces immersed in emotional phases
from craze and amazement to cracks in the pavement
your faces lack ways to display this arrangement
of raw, pure emotion, the tool of my tradesmen.
I'm a breaker of boundary, surrounded by sounds
to impound your hounding instincts
to impede a foundation, a real common ground
to step round all the sounds that you make with your mouths
in one language "gefunden", in another, just "found".
My name is music, and these are my wonders
and yet you debase them with thunderous bluster
of genre conundrum, the blunder of functionless
styles to list under. With ponderous pomp,
you shred the whole purpose of my voice asunder.
Carry the arrogance off in a barrow,
a carriage if need be, but end the foul marriage
you've made with disparaging comments
at cherished opinions of positive credit.
"That band sucks" is a point of no merit,
There are treasures unmeasured and yet-unknown pleasures
for unfettered minds unafraid to sprout feathers
and fly beyond genre and matters of whether
or not music X is the best music ever.
My name is music, and I am remarkable, if you really think about it.
So please, sit down, relax, and just enjoy me for what I am.
Not what you think I should be.