Terrace, keys; Malcolm, beats;
Wayne, thump; Sax and Bass--the
Legends' label slipped my pen.
Tunes blare and souls fare,
Vibe-in' like no Joes care.
"Lets groove!," the Pioneer sung,
Followed by "Du-da-da-da!"-- the
Caressing of his fingers on his board.
Heads noddin', hearts throbbin,
Feet droppin', But notthing like
The Soul radiating off T's anatomy.
The symphony rebirths what
Once was in every man's life--a
Careless lost in the depths of
Happiness, the depths of those
beautiful tunes.

The keys pack; The beats blend with
The silence of the toasty air's
Conversations; Wayne ceases to thump;
The alto's at rest and Bass-Man's
Feet kick on the recliner.
The tune abates in the room...
But my ears tune to the melody that
Comforts the air every day of rest--Sunday
Afternoon--to rejuvenate the Soul that had
No blemish, which roamed heights of imagination
And freed me like righteous Mandela.
Them tunes, T, them tunes.
Until next Sunday, when the moon falls, and
The sun shines--T's crew.