(poem for Eric Whitacre)
Whose words they are I think I know.
His poem’s copyrighted though,
With words you’re not allowed to hear
About the dark woods in the snow.
The man would maybe think it queer;
His family dead for many a year,
No heirs in need of royalties,
Yet companies still profiteer.
Ignoring other artists’ pleas
The publisher alone decrees:
None can set Frost’s words to music,
None can share words such as these.
The poem’s lovely, all agree,
But pay up if you want to see,
And years will pass before it’s free,
And years will pass before it’s free.