For anyone with a love of music but cannot read, play or write it. |
A LAMENT My limited vocab is but a thief stealing away My ability to express my love for music as I may I know not much of scales or tones, a flat is where I dwell Sharp is that of knives or tongues, some terms-can’t even spell A major is an army rank a minor just fourteen A scale is how a fish is clad but all this I have seen If I want to get time signature, the inventor of the swiss Can sign my fan book ‘All the best’ or ‘May your life be bliss’ I know Tchaikovsky’s overture, the war of eighteen twelve And Mozart’s Opera Figaro was accepted less than well But can I recognise these pieces shown to me in script A resounding no and my lament’s that I’m illiterate Opera makes me sit and think, Big Band get up and go Jazz I enjoy for hours on end in rain, hail, shine or snow Music of the sixties and that decade next to follow Holds memories of utter joy, regrets in which to wallow I’ve been exposed to many kinds of music and I’m glad I owe an endless debt of thanks to the bloke I call my Dad. Yes, I show my ignorance of an art form known to most Yet few can see my passion or can reason why I boast For my music is not theory, I can’t read, write or play Though I’m the blood of a gifted man and this is why I say That blessed is the one who feels more than one who knows For ignorance sits with the one whose music’s just for shows. |