Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The day the music really died

No storm clouds blotted out the sky,
No thunder crashed in doom-filled peals.
No trumpets blared the news on high,
No chariots of fire sped by
On rolling, flashing wheels.

‘Twas just a day wherein the breeze
Roved lightly over hedge and street
And rustled leaves in stately trees
In pleasant seventeen degrees
Of lazy springtime heat.

But dotted all around the world,
No-one could soothe the songsmiths’ feelings.
And imprecations long were hurled
And smoke from ashtrays gaily curled
On up to blackened ceilings.

For though they paced with frantic tread,
No songs of note could be composed.
It was as if the Muse had fled
From every earnest songsmith’s head,
Or resolutely dozed.

Whatever set of notes they strummed
Or plucked, or sang with voices fair,
Whatever mournful tune they hummed,
One by one they all succumbed
To tearing out their hair.

For every song that could be writ
Had now been writ. And though they blew
And drew their bows, and though they bit
Their bottom lips, they had to quit
Composing something new.

And after days and weeks, they cried
And flung their fiddles in the bin.
It was the day the music died
When every songsmith joined the tide
And packed the business in.

And no more music e’er was heard,
No rise and fall of pitch and tone,
And though it might seem quite absurd,
Each hitherto expressive bird
Now chirped in monotone.

And soon a dark’ning gloom descended,
Blacker still than any night.
The Music Age abruptly ended,
The grasping claws of death extended,
Blocking out the light.

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