Mr Whistler, you’re like the pied piper of Hamelin,
Except you’re a hard-hatted scaffolder whistling a jonty tune on a sunny day, in modern day Camden,
Your tune carries far and wide: like a pinball, bouncing from ear to ear of every person that passes by,
Some search you out, while others hear you long before they arrive;
A few recognising the tune, others hearing it for the very first time,
Oblivious to all of this, you concentrate on testing the bracket and brace,
While the tune may seem like magic to the gathering crowd below,
To you, it’s a subconscious hangover from a musically-obsessive youth,
Manifesting itself of late into a unconscious habit accompanying your work;
The audience can be an occupational hazard at times,
For, you get so caught up in your work, you forget they grow quite animated and carried-away,
Integrity of the structure is what truly matters to you now, Mr Whistler,
And the applause at work’s end, you treat as appreciation for a job well done,
Rather than a false catalyst for re-hashing a past chasing rockstar dreams, that is in truth are a false economy,
For beauty and fulfilment are in the eye of the beholder;
What you want and need has many layers in-between, and to appreciate the differences, takes time and the dawn of maturity;
And, Mr Whistler, has evidently learned that chasing some dreams (no matter the temptation) are not as fulfilling as he once believed them to be.