I went to a concert one night—
the church is across from my house—
it turned into quite a good fight:
the horn versus everyone else.
Frank played every note very flat—
or sharp—he found all of the keys.
The tones of those sounds he got out?
You’d think that a foghorn had sneezed.
The orchestra wandered along,
the chorus was actually good,
apart from mute cursing of “Wrong!
I’d staple his lips if I could”.
These problems continued for years
’til concerts in front of a Lord,
who walked from the music in tears—
and Frank, he had put to the sword.
Such murder is highly improper;
the Lord was convicted in court.
But Judge was a music conductor,
so fined him a bottle of port.
You’ll find, when your life is complete,
if down to the torment you’ve fell,
Frank proving, for Satan’s conceit,
that trumpeting takes you to Hell.
I understand an earlier version of this poem was published by Page 84.