The Harper's Lament
In high Heaven (or so I have often been told)
The angels play music on sweet harps of gold
He who first told this fine tale angelic
Was surely using some fun psychedelic,
Bedazzled believers: hear, and look sharp!
For there’s naught as cruel as the wily harp.
First, behold the many strings -
Deceptively small, benign little things -
But after tuning some forty-odd
You no longer believe in a kindly god.
Sometimes you hear a quick, deadly twing!
As your dear-bought cat-gut takes to the wing
And you must then raid your precious supply
(Provided the string didn’t take out your eye)
But wait! What is this? It cannot be found!
They’re all used up from the last time around.
No 4th octave strings, however deep you do dig,
Not even a 3rd that you might jury-rig.
So it’s off to the net, with beetled brow,
“Let’s see, strings… they want how much now?!?”
Then you and your harp face a sad, awkward break
As your strings ship by snail-back from distant Salt Lake.
Now sweaty and nervous, take the strings you have bought
Curse, fumble, and moan: “Who came up with this knot?”
You’re tempted to try to tie something new
But many have failed who were better than you.
After your struggle, still tense and afraid -
Recalling just how much you have paid
And pondering your instrument choice anew
You think on what other musicians do.
Pianists call some professional, or so I hear,
Who does all their tuning - get this - twice a year.
I’ve heard violinists whine about restringing before
It must be so hard when your strings number four.
If ever that lumbering hulk need be shifted
You need Man Friends, muscularly gifted.
Agitated, you squeak and pull at your hair
Plaintively begging that they take utmost care.
And what’s the result, after the sweat and the fright?
Your harp has been moved one foot to the right.
In conclusion: that Melusine harp is my curse
It’ll eventually squash me and steal my spot in the hearse
That cruel harp is my bane! It’s a demon! a snake!
But evil harps of the night; what sweet music they make.
I was bored. What can I say?
The angels play music on sweet harps of gold
He who first told this fine tale angelic
Was surely using some fun psychedelic,
Bedazzled believers: hear, and look sharp!
For there’s naught as cruel as the wily harp.
First, behold the many strings -
Deceptively small, benign little things -
But after tuning some forty-odd
You no longer believe in a kindly god.
Sometimes you hear a quick, deadly twing!
As your dear-bought cat-gut takes to the wing
And you must then raid your precious supply
(Provided the string didn’t take out your eye)
But wait! What is this? It cannot be found!
They’re all used up from the last time around.
No 4th octave strings, however deep you do dig,
Not even a 3rd that you might jury-rig.
So it’s off to the net, with beetled brow,
“Let’s see, strings… they want how much now?!?”
Then you and your harp face a sad, awkward break
As your strings ship by snail-back from distant Salt Lake.
Now sweaty and nervous, take the strings you have bought
Curse, fumble, and moan: “Who came up with this knot?”
You’re tempted to try to tie something new
But many have failed who were better than you.
After your struggle, still tense and afraid -
Recalling just how much you have paid
And pondering your instrument choice anew
You think on what other musicians do.
Pianists call some professional, or so I hear,
Who does all their tuning - get this - twice a year.
I’ve heard violinists whine about restringing before
It must be so hard when your strings number four.
If ever that lumbering hulk need be shifted
You need Man Friends, muscularly gifted.
Agitated, you squeak and pull at your hair
Plaintively begging that they take utmost care.
And what’s the result, after the sweat and the fright?
Your harp has been moved one foot to the right.
In conclusion: that Melusine harp is my curse
It’ll eventually squash me and steal my spot in the hearse
That cruel harp is my bane! It’s a demon! a snake!
But evil harps of the night; what sweet music they make.
I was bored. What can I say?