When Ravel lay dying
the ghosts
Of dead princesses
besieged him
Each one asking why
he’d written
No pavanne for her. Was
she not dead?
Or did he think she was
not a princess?
“Please,” he cried
silently, “I am trying
To make my peace with
God.”
Better, the princesses
said
To make your peace with
us.
Seeing he had no choice
he rose
And lived another
thirty-four years.
Dying again, the
princesses came
Saying that, for
Couperin and Bolero,
They had forgiven him.
A passing seraph
Muttered “But really,
is Bolero music?”
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