There he was,dressed in satinsat inthe bridge of his own nose,fingeringthe poetry he threaded through his strings.His words fellin wavesof crescendoes, like drops of syrup, fallingoneaftertheotheronto an empty plate.He sang about his London moons,some midnight darling,a bedroom that everyone in attendance swore they had known, too.He was the troubadour,the troublemaker, the messenger of truth -...