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A Harpies Convention Ode

by Steven "Prometheus" Hoey

Lo! O'er the hills, verdant and sprinkled
With new flow'rs wilde, smelling so sweete,
A strange song flowed, floated and tinkled
On Zephyrs that hush'd the lambs' lonesome bleat;

The lucent tones, pearlescent and pure,
Tickled cochleas, curved and hairy
Of sharped-eared shepherds, beckoned and lured -
A Siren's call, lilting and airie;

As Helios rode his chariot-fyre
Into Night's darkling, starry embrace,
The new day dawned, the sun soar'd higher,
And soon the sound of harpies fill'd the place.

For t'was that event all mortals feare,
Dire-fated, there was no prevention,
(Praise Hera it came but once a year!)
The dread Annual Harpies Convention.

They came from all over, [Down] Under too,
(For some harp's loved to play in the dirt)
From China and Greece, Perth and Peru,
Plucking harmonics 'til raw fingers hurt;

Heedless tho of pain, ne'er would it stop,
Debussy, Krenek, e'en Salzedo,
Strumming and ped'ling 'til, at last, drop,
Then consume bowls of pasta alfredo!

Like the Phoenix risen from the pyre,
The harpies 'peggiated anew,
Drawing in shepherd lads with their lyre,
The drag queens followed them 'round like glue;

The worst oft work'd for food or for beer,
Whilst others gig'd at nuptials and wakes,
Playing the garbage most want to hear,
But the 'best of the best' had what it takes;

Playing the stuff hard and atonal,
That 'posers scribed as if to annoy
All the gods, their auras coronal,
'Specially the one who called himself Hoey!

"Pedals, schmedals," was he wont to shout,
And fours against three in time of ten,
He often wrote as if in no doubt
Of rare harpie skill and sharp acumen;

He fear'd not to write for more than one harp,
Or e'en twine one with mezzo (oh my!),
Hiding 'ornamental" strings with tarp
Ne'er work'd - he wrote for them chiding, "Nice try."

Alas! The angel choirs were o'ercome
By the din of earth-bound pluckers;
Who could bear a thousand harps plus one?
(Especially when some swore like truckers!)

And their outfits oft drew long-ish stares:
Hand-made fushia and orange denim pants,
Backless numbers that show'd unshaved hairs,
Ermine stolls, purple gowns - sheer(!) elegance.

Yet all "good things" must come come to an end;
Who can endure such titillation?
As shepherds' eyelids heav'ly depend
O'er glazed orbs, harps hack out "Scintillation"

Night's veil is drawn, dewing the glen,
Cloaking the hills, leaching summer's heat,
The harpies relent, packing it in;
To locals near-bouts, a welcome relief!

O! Silvery shards of iced light,
That drencheth the glade in coolsome blues,
Glint off emptied cans of Miller Lite,
And dead grasses trod beneath harpies shoes

The cricket dares again to be heard,
Fox and hare soft-warily emerge,
To forest music sung by a bird --
Far cry from harpie grunts of binge-'n'-purge!

The stars shine bright, crystal and steely,
The planets their sure courses retain,
No more Salvi, Lyon & Healey;
No more to hear "Danses Sacre et Profane"

Tripping the dreamless, the shepherds sleep,
Nature's night song bestows sweet repose;
Yet come twelve moons they'll once again creep,
Will we survive it? Only Heaven knows!