Discord, Datchord

The stage remained dark;
Something was wrong.
The audience waited
To hear a good song.

The guitarist knew nothing
And needed a set full.
And the state his instrument's neck
Was just fretful.

The drummer was beat and
The bassist was low.
The trumpeter looked ready
To pack up and blow.

The singer was busy
Coughing up lung.
The rhythm guitarist was
Tuned out and high strung.

The band was hungover from
Last night's pleasures:
Too many bars filled with
Too many measures.

Only the pianist was
Keyed up that night,
His instrument ready
In black and in white.

He was feeling quite grand
As he started to play
And not quite so low when he
Solo'd that day.

The ivories were tickled,
The ebonies, too,
The music was funky
And mildly blue.

Then he kicked back the stool
And he started to pound,
Creating a rhythmic and
Deafening sound.

Octaves were slamming,
Glissandos were flying.
Some of the girls in the front
Were seen crying.

The rest of the band then
Woke up and joined in,
Adding to the wonderful
Musical din.

One tune followed others
Till they played all they wrote.
All thanks to the pianist -
A musician of note.
Post a Comment