Tell me again how I was born

The poet and musician
Sit awkwardly together
In this bus called a song

Slowly they talk together
Each feeling 
The other’s a knob

“How could he not know
Any theory yet insist on 
Opening his mouth?”

“How could he not know 
A thing of beauty never 
Having read anything
More than a card?”

Then before the door closes
The most beautiful muse
Sits between them

They scratch, echo
And begin 
Composing

The most beautiful 
Song
They can imagine