Ode to a Fallen Friend

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.