Having my way with Ulysses

For what?

Little Tommy Tucker sings for his supper, What shall we give him? Brown bread and butter. How shall he cut it without a knife? How shall he marry without a wife?

Maestro Artifoni calls it a sacrifice, but a choice?  No.  One of the possibilities possible: I might sing for my supper.  I have that talent, that’s mine.  But his advice came in late.  My exile, my return, I was there, now I’m here.  3/4 at 160.  His timing is off.  But I am grateful to him, his handshake given to me, a touch that didn’t take, but it is in vain.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.