Could it be Five?
        (The Monalisa-Madelyn)

		C. R. Patton Jr.  with M. A. Maxwell


       Of Maniacs and Madelyns
       the troubadours would sing,
       with harpsichords and violins
       and other bits of string;

       From ancient tunes they made their myrth
       and gayly played they well,
       of gods and men of death and birth
       from Heaven down to Hell.

       As Dante wrote that classic piece,
       a trip through Heav'n and Hell,
       Da Vinci drew but just one face
       and just one name he'd tell:

       "Is not my Lisa beautiful?"
       is all Leonard would say,
       the minstrels then each gave a pull       
       and plucked all hearts away.

       Their gaiety raged, "Oh why this maid? 
       Why not Beth?  or Tina?"
       And as they played their bows they frayed
       "C'ette une mon a Lisa!"

       The music changed, a bridge was built
       fortissimo to dulce,
       'twas more to weave into this quilt
       than melody and forte;

       So back to Dante flew their lines,
       his trip through Heav'n and Hell:
       Man's fate?  One ride with Love declined?
       The author ne'er does tell;

       The songsters leave no doubt in mind
       that once in love, at least,
       below in torment's where you'll find
       your soul to be released.

       Dante with ink, Da Vinci, paint,
       both rhapsodied the True;
       another there was with less restraint
       thought he knew what to do;
       
       10,000 times he struck a pose
       10,000 times he tried;
       he sliced an ear, he sent a rose;
       at last his self had died.

       A starry night was not enough
       to have and hold each day,
       and bit by bit with each rebuff
       she tore his mind away.

       That's how 'twas danced in by-gone day
       so long, so long ago
       as painted by these three:  Dante,
       Da Vinci, and Van Gogh.

       Of Maniacs and Madelyns
       the lovesick lemming shrieks,
       among sitars and mandolins
       a dropout sits and freaks,

       "It's not what was but then what is
       Led Zeppelin by name
       reminding all of one, that's this:
       the song remains the same."

       A thin thin smile, with green-brown eyes
       long hair (and breasts) in place,
       she walked my floor exchanging "Hi's";
       this girl with an Irish face.

       Somewhere the minstrels sang again,
       a slowly rising tune,
       of Maniacs and Madelyn
       and me become a loon.

       'Twas Dante's ride, or Mr. Toad's,
       begun away at school;
       my even keel mismatched this road's
       kind bumps and potholes cruel.

       But on I hung and gladly so
       as time went trickling by,
       we found a level from which to flow
       and sing and live and sigh;

       From ancient rhymes and holy books
       came vows and prophesies;
       amongst a throng of wondrous looks
       each other each only sees.

       With modern tunes they filled the air
       and gayly danced away,
       the future lay ahead somewhere
       but home had come to stay.

       Two years had passed three years ago
       when minstrels rang their bell
       and played again fortissimo
       for our Nathaniel.

       Of other men and Miriams
       now troubadours may sing,
       with synthesized new rhythms,
       whate'er the times may bring;

       Still ancient tunes they'll sing and woo
       to slyly sway their host,
       one dance there is beguiles them, too;
       and they love to play it most:

       Of Monalisa-Madelyn
       the troubadours still croon
       with clarinet and violin
       in Nov. then again in June.

             ~~~   ~~~