by Danny "Don Juan" Henrey
It is a Moderne Musick Master,
And he stoppeth one of three:
‘Behind the kirk here do I lurk,
For I’ve a tale for thee!’
‘Give back my limb, thou Cal Arts wretch!’
The Quant dude hauled it back:
’Twas his first day in yankee’s pay,
And feared the first day sack.
For at their bank hight Golden Cracks
They like their quants on time,
And were empowered to ‘Golden Shower’
A new boy’s tritest crime.
‘Yet mayst thou bob thy boss’s bit,
So that he’ll croon thy praise:
If he’s perforce hung like a horse,
He’ll give you quite a raise!’
The Quant dude could not chuse but list:
The Master wove his spell;
‘So hear my song; it’s not too long —
I tell it rahther well.
Whilom there dwelled in Sloane Square’s rounds
An Eyetie curled of hair:
’Mid Eurotrash he spent his cash,
Though was but seldom there.
His heart at last by maiden won,
A lovely flame-haired Celt;
They set a date, their fates to mate —
In Love’s Book was it spelt.
But tunesmith Scots are rare and few,
Sith bagpipes are their bag:
So summoned they a Shamen gay,
To give a nuptial rag.
The Shamen skipped his Cal Arts pad,
To show he wins who dares:
In phaeton gold he Eastwards rolled —
My, how the students stared!
To London’s whirl he gave a stir,
And partied with his mates:
He cut a rug and, with scarce a shrug,
Cut his rehearsal dates.
Instead of toiling ’pon his piece,
At tennis did he play;
And after, lines of coke designed
On fair maids’ vertebrae.
At last, in Alba was he due;
Roomed in the castle keep,
His decadence was muffled thence:
At least the guests might sleep.
The wedding day dawned bright and fair,
Yet was the work unwrit:
He lied: "’Tis called, ‘When True Love’s All.’"
Quoth Dave, "That sounds like it."
In organ loft immured S sat:
A lass his musick turn’d;
Her eye was fair, and gold her hair:
My, how Steve’s proud loins churned!
With speed and skill the notes flew by,
And all began below:
And heaven’s light wreathed fair his sight,
And he too stirred below.
The time drew near ‘When True Love’s All’:
Steve’s digits oozed in fear;
The time, it came, to make his name —
No anthem could they hear!
A rushing sounded through his ears;
His lusts gave him no peace;
At Nellie flew he, lovelorn through,
And fell about the keys!
A gruesome, godless wailing skirl
Around the kirk did screech;
Aghast, all cried for Steven’s hide;
A lesson they’d him teach!
Their sporrans raised in bristling ire,
They burst into the loft:
Steve dared not lurk — fled from the kirk,
And hid in nearby croft.
But found he is, in haystack hid;
All yell, ‘He shall not pass!’
Like vengeful hawks, they drive pitchforks
Into his quiv’ring arse.
He grasps his stinging globes, and bolts,
Pursued by snarling kin;
Cow pats, sheep dung are at him slung —
It is the Highland Fling!
’Tis said that to this very day
The heather still he treads:
And dainty airs yet he prepares —
To Musick is he wed!’
His grim tale done, the Cal Arts man
Fades from the Quant dude’s sight:
On Golden Cracks he turns his back,
And walks into the night.
There is a musick of the spheres,
Of dark harmonic might;
It calls our souls, like burning coals,
To flame in blackness bright.