Not so much to overestimate failure
But to dissect each rhythm perfectly,
Furious frenetic, Ronda Alla Turca,
She filled the April room
With crescendos and allegros, the rise and fall,
Edge-tickling shapeless mountains,
Before holding the air and drifting out
Through keyholes in flashes of Für Elise,
Chopsticks and finally the Moonlit Sonata.
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