最伟大的作品

Bro in vintage suit, with cane in hand, playing magic melodies grand

Strolling through Samaritaine, time renewed by years' refrain

An empire with no bounds in sight, a throne built with notes of light

I travel through keys to 1920, the immortal I missed long ago

Ah, Magritte's obsession, the apple I conjured from thin air

Is the surrealist me, or the clown he meant to paint there?

A pipe that's not a pipe, the dove on his face won't take flight

Remember he's a painter, not a cocktail in sight

Dalí's curled mustache, who gave him that thought? (that thought)

Bent spoon lends you inspiration, no need to return (return)

Is it melting clocks on the wall or cheese that's warm?

Lobster phone's other end, you never answer my call

Roving is the freest ink wash in worldly paintings of old

Elegant legs of Paris, a stroke by the universe bold

Homesickness across the sea, planted in tenderness bare

Only lonely branches grow the flowers Chang Yu would wear

Little boat quietly rows, Matisse's coast it goes

Starry night's sky, Van Gogh sets it aglow

Dreams too beautiful fade, Munch's bridge screams in shade

All the world's bustle from solitude is made

Sunlight flows in the garden, air shakes with floral scent

I ask Monet for a favor, a self-portrait he's lent

Master gazes afar, studying color's shape and form

Suddenly turns to ask me, my own impression to perform

Era's madness, music's king

All things bow to what I sing

Roads still blaze, I still create

Fingertip melodies await

Era's madness, music's king

I think I need no framing thing

It can't frame the keys' swift flight

My notes are all future art bright

Sunrise at the Impressionist port comes and goes

Light awakens sleeping leaves and flowers in rows

The meadow rejoices for a light rain's embrace

We deeply love this world, each in our own space

That butterfly resting on Cambridge's bridge fair

Flies to midnight riverside Florence in the air

Regret by chance is hidden in poetry's page

A world where even smiles cannot engage

Paris's scraps, sentimental grammar, read through music's turn

Under evening wind's lamp, traveler's flower tea, I changed to coffee urn

Then he fell in love with 'bitter,' that complex word so deep

For this is the taste of waving goodbye to clouds, to keep

Little boat quietly rows, Matisse's coast it goes

Starry night's sky, Van Gogh sets it aglow

Dreams too beautiful fade, Munch's bridge screams in shade

All the world's bustle from solitude is made