When the trolley rolled easily by;
And why did we climb the tall hill,
when the valley lay safe at our side;
And who sent us out in the twilight,
to come back with a basket of words;
To fashion a future quotation,
which the desperate world deserves;
Perhaps it was something foolish,
the dare of an anger at best;
By chance the ghost of a poet,
whose song can never rest.
And why did we drink the cold rain,
with the soup so warm on the stove;
And why did we wind up alone,
humming melodies of love;
We did it simply to do it,
we did it to be tender yet tough;
We did it for the beauty of music,
isn't that explanation enough?

CHARLES JOHN QUARTO