Twas a night in December, and all through the house
no musicians were present (can't speak for the mouse).
The dress blacks were gone, no cuff links were there.
You'd have thought we'd been chased out, then eaten by bears.
Other folk were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
We had no concert kerchiefs. No symphonic caps.
Musicians know nothing 'bout long winter's naps.
For ever December our lives seemed to shatter,
It's always the same. The year doesn't matter.
In dreams, to each concert I flew like a flash,
and hoped I had music -- there was a large stash.
Each night a new program and music, and so
I hoped and I prayed they were pieces I'd know.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a hundred new scores that all filled me with fear.
"Now high notes! Now low notes!
Now, difficult diction!
On codas! Cadenzas!
Now sing with conviction!
To the top of the scale,
To the back of the hall!
Now sing louder, Sing louder,
Sing louder all!
As dry throats that before the wild holidays fly,
they wiped out our mid-range. We started to cry.
so up to the drugstore our old Chevy flew,
with a handful of cash, and three-fourths of our crew.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the preening and boasting of basses who goof
As I channeled my dread and was turning around,
a million sopranos shrieked out, "Homeward Bound".
One was dressed all in fur, from her head to her foot,
and her clothes were expensive. On credit cards put.
She had a poor flunky, a spine he did lack,
and paid for it dearly when notes he did crack.
Her eyes, they were wicked. Her manners, not merry.
Her cheeks burned like lava, her nose in the air-y.
Her red lipsticked mouth was drawn up like a bow
that had want of an arrow for fierceness to show.
The heads of her foes she held tight in her teeth,
and the hairspray encircled her head like a wreath.
She had a thin face, and a much thinner belly,
or so you should say, lest she claim you were smelly.
She was bossy and mean, a right nasty old elf,
and I knew to steer clear, to protect my tired self.
A twitch of her eye, and a twist of her head
meant "shut up right now, or else you'll be dead."
She spoke not a word, but sang every work
and stole all the solos, like a really huge jerk.
Then, slaying an alto and several maestros,
she finally finished and struck quite a pose.
She bowed ninety times, and the crowd gave a whistle,
but no one could leave. There was not a dismissal.
But I heard her exclaim, 'ere she hogged the limelight,
"You all come back now for The Queen of the Night!"