The Cuckoo and the Nightingale

Tinkle on the ivories
You’re waiting in the wings
Listening as others wheeze
The skinny croaker ‘sings’
She got the job through hours spent
Mouth open, on her knees
Her sound resembles native Kent
While dulcet tones that please
You warble on, just marking time
Stood, shuffled to one side
The notes that soar not hers, but mine
A gift they chose to hide
So as dramatic climax nears
On anorexic face
Fat lady singing through the tears
While mask remains in place

On artistic licence

Trying to learn sweet music by numbers
Is driving me nearly insane
For what beauty reaches the listener’s ear
If the whole does but total refrain?
What passion may lie in the breath of a sigh
Where the singer but counts up to four?
It may have been writ so, but ’tis not a bit slow?
Music equals more than the score.
I’m doing my utmost to do the notes justice
And hope the composer’d be proud
To hear such life given to what he had striven
To write down when sung out aloud.
Yet I crave your indulgence – I mean you no harm
And I hope my performance will cause no alarm
As you’re paying to hear me sing these lines tonight,
I’ll be doing them my way – so please do sit tight
And reign in your tongue, hark ere you criticize
Or the beauty may strike you right between the eyes.