We noodle around in eighth-note rhythms
Syncopated and erratic
And think that those before played measures made of four
Or two
Or one
Or even longer
Though the mark for those is rare and strangely named
But those who played for those dances thought of themselves the same
Racing along in merriment against their elders' plodding
And looking on with some chagrin or fear
At the sixteenth-note runs their juniors play
And marveling or jealous at two-octave hops
They can scarcely hear before hearing them played
Their fingers flexing in futility
Unable to compete
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