A Lament

A LAMENT

My limited vocab is but a thief stealing away
My ability to express my love for music as I may
I know not much of scales or tones, a flat is where I dwell
Sharp is that of knives or tongues, some terms-can’t even spell
A major is an army rank a minor just fourteen
A scale is how a fish is clad but all this I have seen

If I want to get time signature, the inventor of the swiss
Can sign my fan book ‘All the best’ or ‘May your life be bliss’
I know Tchaikovsky’s overture, the war of eighteen twelve
And Mozart’s Opera Figaro was accepted less than well
But can I recognise these pieces shown to me in script
A resounding no and my lament’s that I’m illiterate

Opera makes me sit and think, Big Band get up and go
Jazz I enjoy for hours on end in rain, hail, shine or snow
Music of the sixties and that decade next to follow
Holds memories of utter joy, regrets in which to wallow
I’ve been exposed to many kinds of music and I’m glad
I owe an endless debt of thanks to the bloke I call my Dad.

Yes, I show my ignorance of an art form known to most
Yet few can see my passion or can reason why I boast
For my music is not theory, I can’t read, write or play
Though I’m the blood of a gifted man and this is why I say
That blessed is the one who feels more than one who knows
For ignorance sits with the one whose music’s just for shows.