song for woody

Hey Mr Mozart, I wrote you a song
Beethoven came to see Amadeus, study, play - not to be, for W was mad in New York dying
That man had written all the music that ever was his,
and at the end of a day all the notes can't be heard from the moon. Every day, any day, go there:
sit in the craters and listen to earth, as the men crawl dropping bombs shit curses making
no noise at all.
'Spleen' has been written. There's no need to write it again.  No one new need suffer your whims,
take joy at home.
on the keyboard, pick out old songs.  take joy.
gloria on high, on high.
there are mountains on the moon