Piano Man

Every night, he sat down,
Put old tired hands to yellowed keys.
Tired joints have let him down,
And he’d think back to days when he played with ease-
When he was the piano man.

He was their pride, their joy, their claim to fame.
His awards and trophies lined the wall.
They loved his status, loved saying his name,
Loved being able to hang their coats in his hall-
Because he was their piano man.

But as the years grew long, his fingers grew gnarled;
The notes came slower, sounded more forced.
His friends drifted off, to find a new star,
Abandoned the old man, with little remorse-
Who needs the piano man?

Tomorrow, he’ll be laid in an empty hole,
Never again to play the ivory keys.
No one is coming, or none I’ve been told,
At the grave, it’ll just be me and him and the priest.
Farewell, piano man.