Far more out of place than any naturally uncamouflaged thing, there sticks out, as the sorest of mangled thumbs, that thing which once could but now can no longer camouflage itself– for surely that latter thing, being naturally endowed with the ability to hide, needs generally hide all the more. Imagine then, the bungled chameleon, treading softly ‘mid its jungle of keen toothéd dangers, yet cursed to parade in continual gaudy conspicuity.

And when bright hues yet shade, and deep tones but tint– how many are we mere bungled chameleons, sans skins to hide our lack of place?

Let us deem this music thus as jungle– or world all the same– its motoric dissonance the canopied shadows between which dart innumerable insatiable predators. Observe, then, that bungled chameleon passing nervously through– a lyrical theme, much out of place, and all too fain whelmed by shadow again.

Carefully indeed must proceed the bungled chameleon; for that enshrouding darkness may yet be some abyssal yawning maw!