What the Clarinet Said About the Triangle
Well where in the world do I start?
Its patronising noise vexes me so!
They say instrument playing is an art
form. But not that of the triangle, no.
Ringing out over all who sit,
Swinging wildly upon the cord.
Annoying all residents of the pit.
The oboe and trombone are bored.
And not to mention the percussion,
All the woodwind and strings.
The constant topic of discussion?
The awful way the triangle sings.
The smallest of the instruments,
Its voice stupidly shrill.
All our efforts idiotically spent
To pay the triangle's outlandish bill.
And yet the idiots applaud!
They do not know what talent is.
Their mindsets shall be forever flawed
If they stay, transfixed, in this grasp of his.
A wise, old Clarinet once said
He'd see the wrongs in his ways.
That Clarinet's soul – my own – is dead.
The orchestra's hopes in a fiery blaze.
And as the crowds, they clap and cheer,
Throw roses up upon the stage.
The triangle smiles wickedly and jeers,
Much to the other instruments' rage.