On this day, the fifth of May

We find our anecdote in worry, livid with the gibberish

Mrs. Tarr had recently spoke,

For he, only churlish at best, is to be dragged downtown

In greatest pity, at least for he.

The itinerary, one that was not cogent,

Head to the park where the cerebral

Compilations of Mr. Wolfgang Mozart

Can be heard, convoluted, beyond the doors

Adorned with lurid glass

Fashioned to promulgate the last act of the day,

A symphony by Amadeus Deux,

A man from faraway.

The plan, inimical, one might say

Or so thought Robin to himself that day,

For his hearing, spurious

And the symphony, a surfeit.

Why?

He thought to himself, dismayed

Why, oh why, was I born this way?

Displeased and retreating from the rest of the group

Robin, feeling thrown through a loop, misunderstood

This incumbent trip, he knew not how he’d enjoy

The first movement

However, Mrs. Tarr, she thought it quite staid

“No matter your condition, you’re implored to remain.”

She spoke soundly and although he could not hear,

The answer was no less than what he had feared.

And at this, they entered.

In the grand auditorium, they found themselves seats

Not far off from the source of supple beats

That would be played for their pleasure and enjoyment,

Except for Robin.

The lights dimmed and as the audience boarded the edge of their seats

The stage was being risen with a rumble in-sync

With the pulse of those attending

When suddenly, Mrs. Tarr had something to entreat.

A balloon for the boy with no ears to find a beat.

At this, he apologized for all reprimands

For his time too would be spend with the band

And all Mrs. Tarr had said to persuade him

To stay, to listen, to feel the music’s ways

Was not done in vain, for Robin was now quite content

                                His whimsicality repealed, replaced by a true child’s portent.