(Or, how I learned not to applaud
between movements at concerts,
with apologies to Leigh Hunt.)
Robert Mann, of Julliard,
raised his finger to his lips,
slowly shook his head, to shush me.
I was gauche, barbarian –
with a flick he could have crushed me.
He, who lightning could have hurled,
saw I sought a better world.
Down the tubes he could have flushed me –
Robert shook his head, and shushed me.
Say I have no use for rules –
say Fame stumbled, should she brush me,
say that Fortune smiles on fools! –
but say as well, that Robert shushed me.