It’s grand that Daughter should learn pianna,
If one can stand it- -but me, I canna.
Why do mothers contain ambitions
To turn their children into muscians?
What if the child does die unsung?–
Better be unknown and remain unhung.
The dear is learning her sharps and flats
The while her father is going bats.
These whole-notes, half-notes, and the rest
Seem not to soothe the savage breast;
Music may, indeed have charms,
But Little-one’s lessons are four-alarms.
She pounds and fingers and punches and trills
Amid the birdies and daffodils;
From lunch to dinner, from spring to fall
My Daughter’s lesson is shared by all.
Paderewski’s fame has never cowed her–
He might’ve played longer, but he couldn’t play louder.
By the time she’s mastered her flats and sherps
I’ll be playing dem Gilded Harps–
My chance at last!–the worm is turning–
I’ll unhinge Angels while I’m learning!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, February 7, 1945
