From the East Side a Knabe grand we labor over to the West Side.
Last delivery of day. Days come and go and the keys chord to this.
Stairwells bend the back, and the bicep. Some thumbnails go black.
Tightening of legs. And here we are as this one is about to be played.
There is this little kid fresh to that Knabe, eyes big and ever so eager.
Our crew chief Noah soon rushes in with the final touch, the bench.
Little fingers run across the pearls. And now the weight of the world
is suddenly far more than only a box of cinderblocks as we listen.
We listen to the present now made, now unburdened as a bird to sky.
We listen as all the world is played by what we have put into position.
