Lines on the Departure of
Mr. Tom Cunningham from our Midst
Mr. Tom Cunningham from our Midst
The Tribulations of a Musical Director
You arrive late from town,
The barrier’s down,
And the traffic outside is congested,
The classrooms are locked,
The loos are all blocked,
And an alto claims she’s been molested.
You are anxious to start
But a sizeable part
Of the choir is stuck on the ring,
So the rest have to wait
Till a quarter to eight
Before they can finally sing.
The tenors sound great,
But the basses are late,
And the altos are lacking conviction,
The sopranos are flat,
But regrettably that
Is a seemingly chronic affliction.
They’ve all got a cough,
The heating’s turned off,
Although the weather’s not summery,
There’s nowhere to park,
The lighting’s too dark,
And an accident’s blocked Sq. Montgomery
Their diction is bad,
But what drives you mad
Is the hissing on S’s and Zeds,
And in spite of your plea,
When you look out, you see
Not their eyes, but the tops of their heads.
The sopranos declare
There’s a chill in the air,
And the source of the draught must be cut off,
Then half of the choir
Begins to perspire
While the other half freezes its butt off.
The announcements are long,
The scores are all wrong,
Requiring a lot of corrections,
Which the choir hasn’t made
Since it hasn’t obeyed
Your carefully written directions.
Like children they chatter
Fidget and clatter,
And under your nose a soprano
Takes a deep breath
And sings double f,
When it’s clearly marked mezzo-piano.
The break you have spent
With your ear being bent
By a bass with a weird proposition,
Then you’re somewhat bemused
When you’re roundly abused
By a tenor who’s failed his audition.
There are those who oppose
The music you chose,
Complaining your choice is a wrong’un.
Their only desire
Is to sing the Messiah,
When instead they are struggling through Jongen.
There are simmering rows
On the style of the blouse,
Which are causing a terrible racket,
And remind you again
There’s a nasty brown stain
Down the front of your white dinner jacket.
From major decisions
To minor precisions,
Everything rests on your shoulders,
Is it Poulenc or Mozart
At the Cirque or the Beaux-Arts?
And should we be using red folders?
With problems like these,
It’s no wonder Tom sees
The need for a change of direction,
But I’m certain he knows
That, in leaving, he goes
With our lasting respect and affection.
You arrive late from town,
The barrier’s down,
And the traffic outside is congested,
The classrooms are locked,
The loos are all blocked,
And an alto claims she’s been molested.
You are anxious to start
But a sizeable part
Of the choir is stuck on the ring,
So the rest have to wait
Till a quarter to eight
Before they can finally sing.
The tenors sound great,
But the basses are late,
And the altos are lacking conviction,
The sopranos are flat,
But regrettably that
Is a seemingly chronic affliction.
They’ve all got a cough,
The heating’s turned off,
Although the weather’s not summery,
There’s nowhere to park,
The lighting’s too dark,
And an accident’s blocked Sq. Montgomery
Their diction is bad,
But what drives you mad
Is the hissing on S’s and Zeds,
And in spite of your plea,
When you look out, you see
Not their eyes, but the tops of their heads.
The sopranos declare
There’s a chill in the air,
And the source of the draught must be cut off,
Then half of the choir
Begins to perspire
While the other half freezes its butt off.
The announcements are long,
The scores are all wrong,
Requiring a lot of corrections,
Which the choir hasn’t made
Since it hasn’t obeyed
Your carefully written directions.
Like children they chatter
Fidget and clatter,
And under your nose a soprano
Takes a deep breath
And sings double f,
When it’s clearly marked mezzo-piano.
The break you have spent
With your ear being bent
By a bass with a weird proposition,
Then you’re somewhat bemused
When you’re roundly abused
By a tenor who’s failed his audition.
There are those who oppose
The music you chose,
Complaining your choice is a wrong’un.
Their only desire
Is to sing the Messiah,
When instead they are struggling through Jongen.
There are simmering rows
On the style of the blouse,
Which are causing a terrible racket,
And remind you again
There’s a nasty brown stain
Down the front of your white dinner jacket.
From major decisions
To minor precisions,
Everything rests on your shoulders,
Is it Poulenc or Mozart
At the Cirque or the Beaux-Arts?
And should we be using red folders?
With problems like these,
It’s no wonder Tom sees
The need for a change of direction,
But I’m certain he knows
That, in leaving, he goes
With our lasting respect and affection.
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| Last updated 16 July 2007 |
| BCS |
| the poet |