The wild toccata that I heard
was like no other ever writ.
It set off in augmented thirds
that sparkled from their staves like birds
of wit.
Unnerving was this rush of sound –
this cacophonic flight of tones.
A stable key could not be found,
and little meter save a mound
of sticks and bones.
But then some minims set a pace,
while semiquavers swept the clock.
A clique of rests announced a race,
which led to quite a heated chase
like those in J. S. Bach.
At length a fugue took full command.
Its subject was a tune from Beck.
The countersubject made its stand -
a B-side from some one-hit band.
It didn’t fit, but what the heck.
Then suddenly those birds came back.
Our earnest fugue did not conclude.
The thirds returned into a stack.
A long fermata took the flak,
and slowly silence once again ensued.