Acrostic 2

Phrynichus

Persia raised her mighty hand and

High upon a tragic hill

Ravaged poor Miletus, beloved lesser town.

Incensed the crying crowd declared

Never to be played again, yet

Imitations still abound among the sands of time.

Copycat, oh copycat, is there another way

Have you not discovered that we all die in vain?

Underneath the burning grit the years have passed away

Still men in masks and cowboy boots, strut upon the stage.

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