The Last Symphony

The fingers they move fast A sweet sound pouring out After every lyrics pass The dancers move about This tune it fills the air With an atmosphereic pitch The ting of a symbol Declares the sounds be stitched Awes from the crowd In this arena so vast Proclaiming the performance To not be the composer's last His hands they separate back and forth All while a rage of brass rings out The drums are banged to set the motion forth And begin to develop the sound The voices they do sing loud To this poem changed aria Not even the likes of Homer's Odyssey Could match the epic orchestra As we come to a close The sound begins to squander The audience they soon know Their dissipation will be no longer A call for encore It roars from the fans But this symphony is never more For the composer he no longer stands