Oh, piano, oh piano! Whyfor dost thou crackle so?
Your ivories immaculate – yet sounds no longer accurate.
Your a’ a mighty bang when it is pressed
Even with a touch most delicate.
‘Tis but thy sound that is my enemy,
Which is musical cause for enmity.
What’s music? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm nor face nor any other part
Belonging to a man. Oh, choose a better tone!
What’s in the sound? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
So piano would, would he not thwack and thump,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that infernal crackling.
Nay, my dear friend, ‘tis time to say farewell
Unless your motherboard may repaired.
Until that happy day, it must be down
Into the basement that you’ll be transferred.