Marquis Palmer

Terrace, keys; Malcolm, beats; Wayne, thump; Sax and Bass--the Legends' label slipped my pen. Tunes blare and souls fare, Vibe-in' like no Joes care. "Lets groove!," the Pioneer sung, Followed by "Du-da-da-da!"-- the Caressing of his fingers on his board. Heads noddin', hearts throbbin, Feet droppin', But notthing like The Soul radiating off T's anatomy. The symphony rebirths what Once was in every man's life--a Careless lost in the depths of Happiness, the depths of those beautiful tunes. The keys pack; The beats blend with The silence of the toasty air's Conversations; Wayne ceases to thump; The alto's at rest and Bass-Man's Feet kick on the recliner. The tune abates in the room... But my ears tune to the melody that Comforts the air every day of rest--Sunday Afternoon--to rejuvenate the Soul that had No blemish, which roamed heights of imagination And freed me like righteous Mandela. Them tunes, T, them tunes. Until next Sunday, when the moon falls, and The sun shines--T's crew.