As sunrise wakes the questing hand
To twitch beneath the sheet,
The morning finds its orchestra
To drum out new dawn’s beat.

With warming note of whistled breeze
To rise the morning wood,
Who shan’t finger to accomp’ny
When playing feels so good?

Let every woman,
with her hand
—strike her dawn song.
Call every man,
to come and stand
—‘join our dawn song.’
‘Til every member,
our penile band
—is the dawn song.

Wife sees her darling’s instrument
And envies its pure tone.
Decides to strum—the tuneful thing
To hear her husband moan.

He hides away, denies her,
Rejects her single skill.
So ‘fore he wakes, she plucks his strings
“Sweet song won’t tune it ill”.

spouse,
‘neath touch of wife
—feels her dawn song.
This parody,
of married life
—twangs his dawn song.
Penis touch,
and lovers’ strife
—you’ll be dawn song.

As organ music lights the air,
The choir warms their voice.
Cooing giggles, lustful sighs,
Musicians—not by choice.

And though they’ve no conductor
Each knows her song by heart.
She grips the baton tightly
To guide her blissful part.

Cherished daughters,
one and all
—love the dawn song
Masturbators,
penis thrall
—hate the dawn song
In our conflicted,
push and pull
—comes the dawn song

These ladies disdain music,
Though they’d play for those they warn.
But who could rue the hornist
For puffing on her horn?

And if her trumpet’s rhapsody
Should fall on you alone.
She’ll be the first to damn you
For sliding your trombone.

Pure of heart,
Untainted breast
—feeds the dawn song
Music outs,
The urge suppressed
—was that my dawn song?
No longer clear,
Heart’s notes distressed
—now play your dawn song

Soprano wakes. The dirty blonde
Soaring from her bed.
Hair catches in the morning light
Halo frames her head.

She bears the morning harmony,
That virid sound of day.
Her hymn-strained breast, for unseen crowds,
Guides forth to dawn song’s way.

Hand chained ugly,
down below
—I’m the dawn song?
Straight to the place,
I mustn't go
—Oh, I’m the dawn song.
My sinful need,
will always show
—Ohhh I’m the dawn song
—Mmmnn… it’s me
—I’m the fucking dawn song

To chorus frosted window,
Songstress ascends her stage.
From rude libretto plucks,
And finds her cherished page.

Dear maiden’s throat to clear,
Afore she sings her piece,
Now cries to gathered souls
To call the song to cea—

“Shut the fuck up!

“All of you, just shut up. Don’t you know what time it is? It’s five thirty in the morning. People are trying to wa— trying to sleep. Seriously, It’s every day with you people. Oh my God! Do you even hear yourselves? All that moaning, all along the street, all day long. The sound of your hands going up and down, up and down, over and over again. And those things—oh god—why are they so loud? It’s awful. Don’t any of you wankers have any shame?”

False coda heard,
let chorus fade.
—Dawn song

“Finally, some peace and quiet.”

Hands pause mid-stroke,
for cheeks’ red shade.
—Dawn song

“It’s just gross to listen to.”

Shame’s fermata,
Silence weighed.
—Dawn song

“I mean, it’s so, so not wankable.”

A sound remains,
One wrist’s saccade
—Dawn song

“It’s barely… ohh, barely wankable at all.”

As blonde rubs out,
Day’s serenade,
To stir up dawn’s new verse.

“Ohhhh….”