by
Your Blogger
Well, it seems like I have done it again,
Causing one poster a great deal of pain.
You see, I said that Mozart's music contained
Everything that music could contain.
Now I thought that my meaning was rather plain.
But this is something that I should have explained
More clearly, at least to one poster, who otherwise,
At least in his perspicuous eyes,
Might see me as someone less than wise!
Perhaps this poster is a little more used
To plainer language, and therefore
Thinks me just a little bit confused.
But this only makes me a little bit amused.
For he asks about the why and the wherefore
Of my remark, implying that it is a lot of bunk.
For, you see, according to him,
My remark is merely a semantic whim,
For Mozart's music does not contain any funk.
Therefore it should have been clear all along,
That everything I said about Mozart was all wrong!
In the same way,
If I may
Be consistent, I should not say
That I ate
A fish,
Whether on a plate
Or in a sandwich;
For according to this literal
Point-of-view,
I would have to eat all
The bones too!
So you see, I cannot speak as I wish,
Unless I eat the entire fish!
But let us return to the topic at hand,
Perhaps a little easier to understand.
Now this is not to put Mozart down,
But I'll admit he wasn't exactly James Brown.
And this is what I get for using a word,
In a manner that could be made to sound absurd.
For it is not nearly
Enough to speak clearly
What is on one's mind.
But one must speak in order not to leave others behind.
For others are soon confused and perplexed,
And then they become easily vexed.
And then they write in and complain,
Sounding perfectly sane,
Finding intellectual drama
In semantics and gramma!
For, of course, if one has gone to school,
It is well known, after all,
And as a general semantic rule,
That language is intended to be literal!
And we should not, for example, abuse
Language in such a way as to confuse
The general
With a Corporal,
Since one normally belongs to the military,
While the other belongs in the pages of a dictionary;
As when schoolchildren observe with a frown
The difference between a general and a specific noun.
As when a parent of one kind or another,
Is explained to be a father or a mother!
Unfortunately, you see,
According to me,
Mozart's music is,
I emphatically say,
Unique in this
Very metaphysical way:
Namely, that it is supposed to contain everything!
But then, I am told,
In language so bold
That Mozart's music does not swing!
Therefore, how can I have the gall
And, what's more, the temerity to claim
Emphatically, and to my shame,
That Mozart's music contains all
Styles of music, other than, of course, the Classical?
This poster might even be driven frantic
If I dared to say
In my own peculiar, lazy,
Semantically hazy,
And rather undisciplined way
That Mozart's music contained the Romantic!
For this is yet another
Example of an abuse of the semantic.
This is like calling Norman Bates's mummy
"Mother"!
Or like a child calling his stomach "tummy"!
Thus words tend
To be misused and end
In no meaning at all,
Kind of like calling Baroque music Classical!
This, in fact, may be true.
But then I would
Ask of each and every one of you,
Have you considered that,
When you tip your hat
And say "Good morning," the morning need
Not really be "good"?
But that this is only doing a good deed
And speaking as one should!
But that's not all!
For that
Was just one
Example among many pulled out of my hat.
And I've only just begun!
For example, if Elvis is called a "cool cat,"
One does not necessarily intend to show how
Elvis' singing sounds like a cold me-ow!
And, come to think of it, why
Does a young woman call
Another woman "guy"?
As when one woman cries
To her mates, "C'mon you guys!"
I had always believed that in Nature's plan
A guy had to be another man!
Or, to put it in still another way,
Why are we accustomed to say
That a woman has a sunny smile,
When it is raining all the while?
Or perhaps you might try
To meditate on the question why
We call an opera "grand,"
But also a father and a son.
For it is difficult to understand
How a grandfather and a grand
Opera can
Be the same, since one
Is a piece of music and the other merely a man!
Or again, a grand opera such as Rob Roy
Is different from a grandson,
Since common sense should show that one
Is an opera and the other merely a boy!
But then we tend to say
Of a woman on her birthday
That she is twenty-one years old,
When, if the truth be told,
This language is rather far-flung,
Since the woman is really twenty-one years young!
And when you talk to a gal
Who has lost her fella,
And she tells you in a rather hysterical
And tearful manner that,
"It is raining in my heart,"
You are not inclined,
If you know the art
Of speaking, to offer her an umbrella
Or a rain hat!
She would think you out of your mind!
And when we speak of a sad melody,
This does not mean that it
Is suffering through a fit
Of melancholy!
That would be carrying language a bit
Too far,
Like looking at the sky to find a star
Such as Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt.
Or else confusing a flame
In one's heart with a real fire,
As if they were one and the same
And one expected to be burned by it.
Or, yet again, confusing a hit
By Elvis Presley with one by Mark McGuire.
(For although Elvis did have plenty
Of hits, the number did not add up to seventy.)
Now these examples may sound wholly
Whimiscal, yet I was accused of writing hyperbole
In saying that the Viennese composer Mozart,
As the greatest master of his art,
Contained within his music everything.
But that was only
A manner of speaking;
As when we call a house lonely
Or walk
A lonely street,
Or talk
Up a storm
Or behave like a worm.
Do I need put into words
That such a worm is not really food for the birds?
Indeed, if a man is a worm to his spouse,
His life
Is threatened not by birds but by his wife
(The shrew-tempered louse)!
Of course we use words like this all the time,
Sometimes to make sense, and sometimes just to rhyme.
And then it can be with or without sense,
Because then it doesn't make much difference.
And most of you must surely know
By now, the light verse of Vertigo.
But then there are things perhaps worse
Than writing comical light verse.
For I am funny in order to show
A funny side, while others are unintentionally so.
And theirs is a funny side
That they wish to hide!
But it all comes down to verbal intent,
Or what one says and what one really meant.
Now one poster has called me a "claimant,"
Which is kind of like calling a coat a raimant!
And even worse, I was called "anachronistic,"
Which is like calling Schoenberg "twelve-tone-istic,"
Or a dog who loves bones, "bone-istic"!
Isn't this a little overdoing it,
Abusing a fashion
Of speaking in a fit of passion?
Like marrying young, then ruing it!
Or swallowing a bottle of insecticide at night
In order to make sure the mosquitoes don't bite!
Of course, I might be reading these words all wrong,
Which is really what I've been saying all along!
I mean words are, after all, only a roundabout way
To express the meaning that one means to say!
They are, after all, only the good tools
That remain
When we ignore all the bad semantic rules,
That grade-school teachers love to teach.
But these are more difficult to explain,
Such as when a word is literal and when
It is used as figure of speech,
And then
Becomes literal all over again!
As the difference between being dead and being dead
Drunk, as when scotch has gone to one's head.
But many people would be rather less perplexed
If they understood words in their proper context.
And, therefore, words cannot do
More than the person that one is talking to.
And words are, therefore, only as good
As the person that allows them to be understood!
Here I am at it again,
Writing Vertigotiginous rhyme!
This millennial time
I wish to complain
About fashionably contemporary
Radio promos of a very
Provocative nature.
What I mean to say is this:
That such a radio promo is
Not likely to increase the stature
Of radio jocks, since,
As you may well know, this kind
Of sell is more likely to make one wince
With embarrassment, than improve the mind!
Indeed, these promotions
Are better suited to sell hair lotions,
And other bathroom accessories,
Like allergic sprays for the nose,
Or other allergenic woes!
The commercialization of art
Is a good place from which to start
In order to establish a new marketing trend,
But it is not a good place to end.
After all, art is a thing
More like a marriage than a fling;
And if one wishes to increase audience appreciation,
Then there are better ways to catch the ears of a nation
Than to say things that are worse than absurd,
Expecting listeners to believe every word!
No wonder there are postings of intellectual distress,
When the talk is more and more
And the music less and less.
And what for?
Because every music lover knows
That this kind of hard sell is a marketing disease,
Hardly suited for discussions of symphonies,
Sonatas, operas, or concertos.
This type of controversial promo
By salacious radio jocks
Makes me want to reach for a bromo,
As each of them cheerfully mocks
The respectability of our culture,
Turning every radio commentator
Into a predatory vulture,
Speaking to the lowest common denominator.
I take umbrage
As every self-styled radio sage
Discusses our High-Class
Musical Heritage
Like it was nothing but a dead carcass
For scavenger nibbling
Or intellectual quibbling.
How immature
Can you get,
When radio stations
In order to compete with each other, set
Their minds not on how to explain
A Beethoven quartet,
(Perhaps sparing the listener the pain
Of taking a book off the shelf,
And finding out for himself);
But rather,
Behave,
Despite their grave
Pretensions, as if they were selling soap lather,
Or detergents. Who
Are these people to
Try to outdo
One another with tasteless promotion?
Don't they even have a clue,
Or a notion
Of intellectual etiquette
When discussing a symphony
Or a string quartet?
Apparently,
As the Russians say, "Nyet!"
Not knowing how to
Present these works intelligently,
They work far too diligently
To be clever, and kow-tow to
Market demands,
Fully deserving our righteous reprimands!
Their methods use every odd notion
Of famous artists and their work.
For in order to shock
They apparently feel that they must mock
These artists, calling,
By whim,
One a saint
And the other a jerk,
As if they knew him!
Thus they replace the artist's work
With anything that ain't.
For these discussions are irrelevant to it.
How could they do it?
For example, as part of one promo,
Bach was even characterized as a "homo";
Or to put it in a different way,
Bach was called unconsciously gay!
This accusation was blatant,
Although Bach was accused of merely being "latent"!
And although his sexual lust
Was just
A thought,
Bach, we assume,
Did not lust as he ought!
(Did he and his wives sleep in the same room?)
This is what is called latency. Still,
This would hardly thrill
Bach's dead wives. In fact, it would give
Them the titters were they still alive!
For, although
Each wife doubtless fully respected
Bach's genius, apparently not one had the genius to know,
Or hardly even suspected,
Darling hubby, Johann
Of living a double life,
Double-crossing every wife,
And not with a mistress but a man!
In effect,
Although apparently heterosexed,
Bach was nonetheless, subject
To other urges, of the latent kind,
Which must have torn apart his mind!
How could he find the time to write
So much music, when he was so unhappy at night?
Since Bach's children added up to twenty,
We must assume that he suffered plenty
In making them! At least this is the very
Strange conclusion of a recent radio commentary!
So I thnk these critics have gone too far!
In fact, who do these jocks think they are,
Selling our musical icons
To the public like they were selling Nikons!
They must be confusing art with a car,
Or razor blades, or an after-shave lotion,
Appealing to every cheap fad and base emotion
In the audience
With such commercial nonsense!
And what gall
To pretend they are being classical,
When, after all,
They are only being commercial!
Where will all this stop,
As each jock throws a commercial sop
To the consumer? For in order to make the consumer buy
Anything, stations will try
Anything as well!
And who can tell?
With every jock pretending
To be a cultural bard,
The possibilities of upending
Common truths are scary!
Perhaps they might even dare
To compare
Hildegaard
To Mariah Carey!
What then will they say next?
They might hint, perhaps that
Richard Wagner was undersexed;
Or argue the odd point-of-view
That that British icon, Sir Andrew
Lloyd-Webber once tortured a cat
Whose name was Deuteronomy,
Or, and this will tease ya,
Had amnesia
When he wrote a song called "Memory"!
This would be certain to cause
Enough controversy to gain the applause
Of the listening audience a lot.
Although,
As you probably know,
It wouldn't matter if it were true or not!
Now I myself would experience great elation
If every classical radio station
Would focus on cultural education
In the form of musical appreciation,
Instead of misguided attempts to deconstruct the mind
Of Bach, or his music; as if this kind
Of discussion could make a fugue more prized,
Once the mind of Bach were psychoanalyzed!
Would it help to know that Bach had a profound
Oedipal complex, when there is no one around
Who doesn't feel the same towards his own mother?
How, in other words, is Bach different from any other
Man or woman living today,
Except, that is to say,
Compared to us,
Whereas we are ordinary, Bach was a genius!
What must people be thinking--or are they thnking
At all, putting Garth Brooks SECOND on a list
Of millennial favorites? They must have been drinking
Pernod when they made their choices!
Are these sober or drunken voices?
The gist
Of my complaint, however, is not the names they put in
But the names they left out!
And this is what I want to talk about,
In terms of values! It's a sin
Or worse than a sin--BAD TASTE,
Or simply a waste
Of time to put Garth Brooks above
So many
Other artists! Does not the public love
More refined music? Or has it heard any
Music before the 1990s?
And not only other styles of singing sung
Mellow, but also played mellow, as by Lester Young!
Then, of course, there are the great symphonies
By Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart
(Not to mention Brahms!). Or, if you like the art
Of religious music, there's Poulenc and Handel!
To put Garth Brooks above these names is a scandal
Not to be endured! But even if you can't stand
Classical styles, what about Babs Streisand
Or Frank, Bird, or Armstrong?
Not to insult the art of the Country song
Or singer. There are certainly great
Artists among them, such as the late
Hank Williams. Current greats include
George Jones and Dolly Parton, before
She became a Country bore
And went to Hollywood.
I am not saying that those who voted were kooks,
Or without taste, for placing Garth Brooks
At Number Two. They might have shown more
Refined tastes, but we can thank a lot of them for
Putting in The Beatles, and thank a
Lot more for leaving out Paul Anka.
If nothing else, when all is said and done
I take comfort knowing Brooks wasn't Number One!
Of December's days remain but twenty-three,
Which I assumed concluded the century;
And here I was about to get myself drunk
Like any common millennial skunk.
Until that is I read Recreation Bluenote
And noticed a post a poster (maybe you) wrote!
Boy, did this post open up my eyes,
About how to figure the centuries!
I mean did this post set me straight
On the proper year to celebrate
The next millennium! I'll rock
In rhythm the next thousand years
With champagne and with cheers,
But it will have to be timed to a clock
Correctly set to honor this
Grand occasion, such as one made by the Swiss!
"The millennium is not just a rounded number!"
So spoke the Voice of Logic, rousing me from slumber
And ignorance! That voice said, "Please!
Learn to count the centuries
Correctly. When all is said and done
The new century begins in 2001!"
Now it's a disappointment and a pain,
To hang my tuxedo and save the champagne
For another occasion, perhaps another year
Before I can indulge myself with cheer!
For there is now nothing to celebrate to,
(Unless, that is, my divorce comes through).
And what if I cheer at the end of December,
I will always be forced to remember
That although it is the end of 19 centuries,
This only ends the 1990s!
So what's the point of having fun
If another century has not begun?
I used to think it was a new millennium,
But I am now informed this is only a dumb
Strategy of advertising louses,
To get people out of their houses,
Paying thousands of dollars for algebraic fun,
Thinking the millennium actually done!
But as Ira Gershwin said so long ago,
Well, it ain't necessarily so!
So listen to me, my friends,
The new millennium really depends
Not on figuring as you please,
But on a proper count of the centuries!
So you may drink or you may dance,
December 31st, but there is no significance
To that specific calendar date,
Even if you party until very late
Into the morning of the following year,
It will only be part of a 20th century cheer!
Now when I posted, little did I expect
That another poster would try to correct
My English style!
Or try to teach
Me the proper use of figures of speech!
Now this bold mocking of my style
Can only make me grin or smile!
However,
I'm much too clever!
For all I know this may be only bait,
So before I answer, let me hesitate
A moment or two, perhaps my irritation will pass;
Or, who knows, perhaps it was only gas,
Or a regurgitation of cheese
That made me interpret this as merely a tease!
As for the poster, perhaps
He has failed to take his usual naps,
And therefore thought my post too deep
(Having failed to get his usual sleep
The night before)!
But this is mere speculation,
On my part! Nothing more!
My imagination
Perhaps is running away with me,
Reading less of gravity than glee
In the followup to my post,
My words being rudely glossed!
But, assuming the poster's good intention,
There is a point or two that I should mention!
For it is strange that a poster with a way
Of choosing words, such as "segue,"
Should notice less his own faults, and more
Those of others, pretending to deplore
Them as faults of speech,
Rather than part of a style perhaps beyond his reach!
Now for those well-versed in rhetoric, there are myriad
Ways to end a sentence, but best is the period!
As for using words, I would hesitate
To use a word like "nominate"!
But, then, I would rather die than live
And use a word such as "declarative"!
As for the word "supportable," well I
Suddenly have the urge to laugh and may even die
Laughing! But before I do, let me make
The reader wary
Of an elementary language mistake;
And so I affix a cautionary
Moral
To my post: People who use
"Verbal" when they mean "oral"
Should not choose
To throw rocks or cast stones around
Or they may discover that those stones rebound
Upon their own heads. And let me suggest that that
Is as good a reason as any for wearing a hat!
But better yet than wearing a hat, one should, as a rule,
Practice the art of language in school
Before one posts one's comments. Doing this, you shall,
Perhaps, see as eloquent what once you saw as comical!
As for the use of "period," I suggest that you can't see
The difference between a word just right and redundancy!
Now there have been many sages
Since time began, who see the world in stages
Whether "Stone Age" or "The Middle Ages"!
I hate to tell you this, but, well, ahem!
I must confess that I'm not one of them!
Although I consider myself to be wise,
I tend to view the world with different eyes.
Why divide the world up into boxes?
It's bad enough we have vixen and foxes,
Or purple and violet, or serpents and snakes!
How can we tell them apart, for Heaven's sakes?
Some feel they live in a different age, but I'm
One who thinks we all live in one time!
After all, it was not only in the Renaissance
That people liked to sing and dance!
So talk of periods and eras makes me frantic,
For how to separate
The Classic and Romantic?
Can we ever find
The exact date
Without losing our mind?
In other words, where do we end and where do we start?
Do we study social manners or just the art?
It's well enough to talk of the Middle Ages
But how do we decide the turning of the pages
From one period's end to the start of another?
Be careful or we might separate a child from its mother!
This would then be a curious state
Of affairs, and Haydn would soon be illegtimate!
For despite his parents' proof of matrimony,
Poor Josef would be separated from his patrimony
By a later historian! What I mean to say is that
A woman's head may live in a different age from her hat,
If, for example, the milliner is an old-fashioned bloke
Who lives in the Classical, but works in the Baroque!
Do you see how names can split one man into two people,
Like a Romanesque church with a Gothic steeple?
And if we divide the world into Dark and Middle ages,
What will happen when it is time to pay due wages?
How does one decide a just price if the exchange rate
Has suddenly changed from Middle Ages to Late?
I near the end of my response! In conclusion,
Historical periods cause too much confusion!
Once again the Christmas season
Is here, another reason
As good as any
To buy CDs, adding to many
Other CDs in your collection.
But these should be a special selection
Of holiday carols and chimes
Suiting the seasonal times:
After all, we must be merry
This time of year
Spreading Christmas cheer
And sending our very
Best Wishes to every ear.
Some like to say, "God rest ye,"
But it sounds better sung in a CD!
But not every CD suits every taste,
So be careful what you buy or you'll waste
Your money and, aside
From that, anger your future bride!
This truly happened to me one Christmas ago,
I gave my girlfriend a CD of Placido Domingo
Singing the "Ave Maria"; but oh
How she carried on, because she
Preferred it sung by Bing Crosby!
They say that music cheers us more than words,
Yet gloomy Christmas music is for the birds!
Still, I'm willing to try a sample
Or two, just to set an example.
So now, snow is glistening
In the lane and I am listening
To Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker muse:
But he always seems to have the Blues,
And there is less of Christmas than December
In his music, as if every dying ember
Of his soul was weeping in one cello!
I turn it off and get myself some Jello
From the kitchen, then put on something bright
And merry, like "White Christmas" or "Silent Night."
Of all the myths of Historical Man
The worst concerns the French Can-Can!
The basic question, why this is so
Is easily answered: I don't know!
But checking with a classic text
By Dr. Ruth, I find the answer: We're oversexed!
Now the Can-Can is not to be made light of!
After all, it was the only night of
Pleasure for Frenchmen, bound
As they were, by dull duties
(Except on that one day
Of rest, known as a Sunday;
Where they could be found
At the beach, ogling Bathing Beauties).
For high-class culture was a bore!
And, what's more,
Often Bach
Would send Frenchmen into a deep
Sleep,
So they turned to Offenbach.
Instead.
Not because of the tuneful melodies,
(Although there were plenty of these),
Or because French wine had gone to their head,
But because of the erotic tease
Of the dancers! For Frenchmen were not
Easily made hot
With passion
In the fashion
Of Italians, or otherwise upended
By Botticellian tresses,
Like Italians were. Their erotic tastes tended
To simpler tastes, such as skimpy dresses!
And once the Gallic fire of passion is aroused,
It is not easily doused,
At least not in a regular house
Where the Madame is only one's spouse!
For most men prefer to leave their spouses home alone,
As they entertain themselves with the frantic getting
Of a woman in a romantic setting,
Or else make love to a wife not their own.
So French Madames baked dishes in drear
Pantries,
Making Brie,
While French Monsieurs ogled little cuties in near
Panties
In Gay Paree!
For the Can-Can was a sexy dance, first of all,
(A manner of speaking, since it was "worst of all"
For French wives, who could not help but scold
French husbands viewing a dance that bold!)
Now the Can-Can was a daring dance,
That started, where else, but in France?
It was famous for the self-righteous prohibition
Against the boldly unrighteous exhibition
Of your typically cute French mademoiselle,
Who was, admittedly, rather free and rather loose,
In the maner, for example, of Irma la douce,
And indifferent if she went to Heaven or Hell!
(Since it didn't matter if she went to either one,
So long as she got paid when the day was done.)
Now the can-can was gay and fast and furious,
Intended mainly for erotically curious
Frenchmen. Unlike the classical ballet for haughty
Balletomanes,
This dance was mostly naughty,
Aimed at unhappily married swains.
And the state of their marriages
Explains
Why they left their wives in carriages
Outside, while they enjoyed the Gay
Parisienne dance: something like ballet,
But not as refined,
With aesthetic appreciation
Exclusively confined
To the men of the nation!
Indeed, the theatrical action
Was, despite artistic pretense,
Mostly in the audience,
And this was mainly
Reaction
Of an insanely
Prurient kind,
Involving the body more than the mind!
Now it aroused the spiritual wives as well,
Who swore that their husbands would go to Hell.
But the husbands, of course, held their breath,
Since they had many years left until their death!
The husbands, besides, had found a sly way
Of pretending the Can-Can was merely ballet!
But really, it wasn't! It was boldly glamorous,
Arousing men and making them amorous
As they ogled the colorful satin-laced frills,
Of young dancers,
(Long-range romancers)
Whose high kicks aroused lascivious thrills!
And younger men made audible sighs,
Not looking at faces, but only at thighs!
That is to say, the dance made most men frantic
With desire, more to do with sexy, instead of romantic,
Feelings, arousing men to magical
Passions, bordering on the tragical!
But this had less to do with Grecian gloom
Than with Gallic cheer,
And every Frenchman whom
Saw it, became a lusty King Leer!
(I know I should have used "who" that time,
But then I would have failed to rhyme!)
Even widowers grinned and made snickers
To themselves, ogling dancers without their knickers!
Now this may be a fact in some people's eyes,
Or it may turn out to be only surmise;
Or merely erotic speculation
Of vulgar readers stirred by titillation.
Perhaps historians themselves are too overjoyed
By topics best understood by Freud.
Or perhaps their wives forgot the vows
Of Niagara,
While the husbands are addicted to the wows
Of Viagra!
Thus there are personal complications
Entwined with historical investigations!
There is no such thing as a value-free science,
Like speaking of an Italian-free Florence!
There are a whole bunch of things holding back
Investigations, more subtle than the Medieval rack!
For example, there is moralistic Man,
Who prefers "can't-can't" instead of "can-can"!
And that inconvenient Decalogue
Interferes, to prudishly bog
Down, by moralistic footnotes, an historical tome
On sexual mores in France or in Rome.
Thus is ruined a reader's lusty delectation
By an unnecessarily moral implication,
Slowing the reader down with serious strictures,
When most readers just want to look at the pictures!
Thus discussing the Parisienne scene
Historians must navigate between
Conservative moralists
Who preach conversions
To the feminine
Mind,
And radical feminists
Who discourage diversions
Of the masculine
Kind!
So the question, therefore is, how to dissect
The "Can-Can" yet remain politically correct!
This is not easy discussing the Gaite Parisienne scene,
Unless you conclude nothing, except in-between!
And even then, you must please the public,
Who doesn't mind being called morally sick!
For most browse the story of Oedipus Rex
Less for the moral, and more for the sex!
So how can we pretend to gravely deplore
A bold dance that illustrates how less is more?
When more is what people want, unless less
Is more, as with the Can-Can dress.
I have often wondered, how to say a name
In such a way as to avoid the shame
Of being called uneducated or worse,
Like saying "noiss" instead of "nurse"!
Is bad pronunication such a sin?
Then there is no hope for those in Brooklyn!
I mean I start to get hemorrhoids,
When instead of "birds" I hear "boids"!
But, let me clear my nose with a tissue,
As I get back to the main issue
Of Dvorak's name; not nearly, you know,
As complex as saying the name Van Gogh;
Now some people sound like a frog,
When they pronounce his name as Van Gog;
Some others even show great fear
Of saying his name, so talk of his ear
Instead; like talking of Hamlet out of fear
That you do not know how to say King Lear.
Why is it then that names cause so much trouble?
Why can't composers have names that are double
Or even triple, like those of Mozart or Bach?
Or Rachmaninov, sometimes called Rach?
If you cannot say Sebastian, you can say Johann,
And please both woman and man.
But then, how much do I know?
I listen mostly to the music of John Blow.
But there are other names that are pesky,
Such as Saint-Saens or Gorecki.
Ogden Nash said Saint-Saens became insane,
Because people said his name as Saint-Sane.
Perhaps, as one poster said, the key
Is to look up the name in a dictionary.
But everyone has different ways, you know!
Some read books, others listen to the radio.
But what if they never play the music of Dvorak?
Then I suppose that you are out of luck!
You will always mispronounce his name,
And this may be to your pride or to your shame,
Or even worse: they will only ask you back
To their homes if you say Dvorak!
My Internet bills are killing
Me, so I must make it snappy,
And, God willing,
Quickly choose some music that makes me happy!
Now here's a topic to make one delerious:
Choosing happy music from the classically serious!
For isn't this a contradiction in terms,
Like choosing the most appetizing from a can of worms?
It is the kind of question that I could wish
Was asked not of a man, but of a fish!
This is not to say serious music makes me sad,
But the opposite is "joyful," not "glad"!
"White Christmas" makes children glad indeed,
But this has less to do with music than with greed!
And children are very happy when they sing
Christmas songs as they go caroling
Around the block on Christmas Eve, scorning
The cold, hoping for more toys on Christmas morning!
The point that I am trying to make is this,
That there are many different kinds of bliss:
The happiness of a child opening a toy
Is not the same I feel when the Ode to Joy
Is played by a master such as Leonard Bernstein,
Who makes me feel that all of Heaven is mine!
Can we call that "happy" or is it more than that,
Like an angel's halo is much more than a hat?
When I hear the Stabat Mater by Francis Poulenc,
I feel more joy than when I put money in the bank!
What I mean to say I cannot explain
Clearly, but happiness is more than monetary gain--
Happiness may be something we learn
By listening, not just the money we earn!
Now music may be the art of leisure,
But what we feel is more than simple pleasure,
Thus more even than happiness,
Like a bride putting on her wedding dress:
The word "happy" cannot sum up in one word
A bride's joyful thrill, even if she marries a nerd!
Now they say that music is the purest art,
And what more pure than the music of Mozart?
And how can we explain this music in simple words,
Except to speak about the harmony of thirds
And fifths and resolutions in a minor key,
And sit silent, stilled by music's harmony?
I will sum up what I mean by the folly
Of this topic. A quartet
By Beethoven was described as being neither sad,
Nor yet,
Happy or glad.
Rather it was was called "gay melancholy"
By Richard Wagner, who certainly knew
His musical terminology and a thing or two
Of Beethoven, besides! So you see, the simple notion
Of happy or sad cannot sum up a musical emotion!
Now many men ask with a sigh,
What will catch a lady's eye?
Is it muscles or is it looks,
Or maybe showing off your books
By Dostoevsky or Tolstoy?
This may work, unless they enjoy
The novels of Stephen King
And that will end your flirting
Even before you can begin to employ
Your charms! So, despite your manly pluck,
You might still be out of luck,
With nothing to show,
At least so far as the ladies go.
But stop your fuss and worrying,
There is still hope for a healthy fling!
Let out a sigh, and brush away your tear,
The way to a lady's heart is through her ear,
Not her eye!
And I do not lie!
What I mean by this,
However, is
Not that you should attempt to kiss
A woman on her ear!
An approach like that has already been tested,
And it always ends in the man being arrested!
I fear
That you confuse a manner of speaking.
As when one accuses a timid spouse
Of squeaking.
This does not mean that your spouse
Actually sounds like a mouse,
But merely speaks
Timidly around the house.
Thus it is as if
Your spouse really squeaks,
As when we call a corpse a stiff!
We call this a figure of speech, or
To use its specific name, a metaphor.
What I am suggesting is that the worst
Thing you can do while flirting is doing first
What should really come last,
Or your intended
Will accuse you of being too fast
And all your romantic plans will be upended!
So, assuming that you wish to get near
To a woman's heart,
You should start
Slowly. Thus giving your intended a mere
Suggestion of your interest
Is really the best
Method. Otherwise you are likely to instill fear
In the object of your attention,
Not to mention
Other emotions I dare not name,
But will anyway, such as disgust and shame!
Thus, what I meant should be clear,
When I talk about the ear,
I really mean what she can hear!
Now there are more direct ways to prove you
Love a woman, such as whispering
In her ear, "I love you,"
Or some such romantic thing,
And it may all end in a wedding vow and ring!
But first things first, until she feels sure
That your intentions towards her are absolutely pure.
And what can be more pure and absolute
Than a message played by a harp or a flute?
For even better than the magic of rhyme
Is the enchantment of romantic musical time,
As in the romantic schmaltz
Of the Vienna waltz.
And not only music she can dance
To, but music that evokes romance!
Now for those who are somewhat wary
Of your charms, to be safe, play John Barry!
For whatever my doubts, I'm
Certain that you cannot fail with Somewhere in Time!
Beethoven is a more cautious choice,
Whether with instruments or with a voice,
As in the Ninth symphony, with its Ode to Joy.
She may think you a romantic boy
Until she hears that noisy scherzo:
Can anything be worse? No!!!!
Now some Bach may move your girl to lurch
Towards you, but most Bach will send her off to church
Instead! It is safer to put a Rachmaninov CD on,
Especially the syrupy tune sung by Celine Dion!
Or your girl may fall for your charms
When she hears Full Moon and Empty Arms
From the same concerto. According to Tom Ewell,
In a film, he says that this music works like a jewel
With women! (I forget which
Film, but probably The Seven-Year Itch.)
True, you may not be a Romeo,
But then she's probably no Marilyn Monroe
Either! Another choice is Mozart's concerto 21,
For piano. But make sure your girl is also 21,
Because this music tends to work magic
In women. Tchaikovsky, however, is too tragic
For most romantic nights in the dining room:
And I can't think of prospects more bleak
Than attempting romance to the music of the Pathetique!
How many women can hear such gloom
And remain in a romantic mood?
However, it is generally understood
That Chopin tends to take the starch
Out of prissy women: But avoid the funeral march
At all costs,
Or your girl might start in thinking about the ghosts
Of her departed relatives,
And their unhappy lives.
Or even worse,
Start her remembering the hearse
Of her dead mother.
Oh brother!
Your romantic bliss
Will suffer a gruesome metamorphosis!
Forget the kiss!
For suddenly her romantic sighing
Becomes elegiac crying!
And your romantic urge
Is sadly frustrated by Chopin's melancholy
Dirge,
Changing your romantic Galatea back into stone!
What musical folly
On your part! So now you're better off alone,
Watching television, or a scary
Video, in solitary screaming;
Or else daydreaming
To the songs of Mariah Carey!
I am writing this post to draw your attention
To the work of a man whom I hasten to mention!
Although his work is sublime, it's wholly ignored,
I wish to argue that this be deplored!
How sad to hear Die Fledermauss
And think of the neglected Strauss!
One can only presume a major vendetta
Against the Viennese operetta!
But is it not a musical crime
To neglect such jewels in three-quarter time?
I mean if we applaud
The pitiful schmaltz
Of Gustav Mahler, and laud
It as art,
(Thinking we're smart)
Then why not that of the Viennese waltz?
Surely this music should be able to please
Us today, as much as it did the old Viennese!
We should be sipping a Viennese beer
To the waltzes of Rosenkavalier,
Even if the name of the Waltz King is Johann,
Not Richard, and some may say I have the wrong man!
Better yet is Johann for calmer moods,
Living on the Danube or in the Vienna Woods,
And much better doing the Tritsch-Tratsch Polka
Instead of living la vida loca!
Is there a conspiracy out there,
Perhaps, I fear,
A major plot
To ignore the music of Strauss? I hope not!
Because the music of Strauss has divine afflatus
And should not be given secondary status!
As for the younger people enthralling
To the disco beat of Vienna Calling,
Enjoy yourselves by all means! But let me please
Remind you: Falco was not the first Viennese!
When it comes to music, I'm not that particular,
I enjoy all kinds, whether supine or perpendicular,
In concert hall or bar,
In tea house or cafe;
I revere church music of every kind
To elevate the mind,
Whether by Stanford or Durufle!
Marching bands are okay,
And I even like "Blowing in the Wind,"
Sung by Dylan alone
With his harmonica, or in the nasal high
And twangy voice
Of a busking Dylan clone!
Well, I have no choice
And really don't much care
If he sings or not in a public square.
And so long as I don't have to pay,
I suppose I'll listen to him anyway.
In fact almost every tune
Is to my ears a boon,
Whether played by a brass band
Or a string trio,
Whether the music is free,
Or I splurge for a seat in the balcony!
I clap my hand
For an Irish ballad, or funk,
Or parlor melody,
Sung sober or drunk,
Played either adagio or con brio.
From Dublin to Naples,
I enjoy most musical staples.
Even that standby, "O sole mio,"
I could listen to forever;
And I certainly wouldn't miss
It sung by Elvis
In English as "It's Now or Never"
Regardless whether sung in Memphis or in Vegas!
I am not like those people who
Know a lot of music, but do
Not like any of it:
I like many of it!
I may not have good taste, but I do know
What I like, such as the music of Gounod,
Brahms, Beethoven and Parry,
(Not to mention that new classic, Rainbow,
By Mariah Carey).
And superb film music, too,
Such as that by Georges Delerue!
Along with Bernard Herrmann and John Barry.
I also appreciate
The very
Great
Composers, such as Mozart, Mahler, and Chuck Berry,
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!
But strange to say,
In every way,
I cannot stand
The unmusical sounds of grand
Opera!
Indeed,
If you don't mind viewing this screed,
I had rather go out to play
A dull game of Bingo,
On a violent night
Than stay
At home and listen to Domingo
Singing Silent Night,
In a style that sounds like vocal rage,
In the manner of the operatic stage!
Now I admit,
I did commit
Myself to marriage for life,
But last year I threatened to divorce my wife,
Since she happens to know
Every tune from The Marriage of Figaro
By rote,
And sings every high note
With no professional training
At all!
What gall!
This is straining
My conjugal
Tolerance, even more than the fugal
Tunes of Bach
She plays in discord
On her imitation harpsichord!
These fugal tunes are pretty tough
To listen to! And were I man enough,
I would demand the preludes of Sergei Rach-
Maninov
Instead of those of Bach!
Now one might argue that this
Kind of musical preference, after all, is
Only an ordinary case of Prussian
Versus Russian
In terms of musical bliss;
The difference might be summed up like this,
Although it may sound a bit crude:
German music knows how to begin,
But it doesn't know how to conclude!
And to prove that a Bach five-voice fugue is boring,
Listen to the sixth voice, which is someone snoring.
Yet what more boring din
Than the Russian operas of Borodin?
Therefore, I say,
Why must it be opera anyway?
Why not, instead, the dance
And its elaborate
Rhythms? Or else, wind music of the Late
Renaissance,
Which I so dearly love?
You see,
As for me,
Personally,
I prefer an evening of
Great music, such as lute
Music; while she
(My wife) prefers something like The Magic Flute!
Now this is something I cannot understand,
How people can call opera grand!
I admit, some kinds of operas are fun.
American musicals such as Annie Get Your Gun
Or The Sound of Music are very
Melodic, not like operas by Verdi!
It's a wonder that Guisseppe sold
Enough tickets necessary to feed a
Large Italian household
With the kind
Of operatic wind
Heard in Aida!
Now my wife prefers chianti
With the music of Guisseppi,
But I prefer Lou Monte,
And a bottle of Pepsi!
Is it any wonder we don't get along?
She likes an aria while I like a song!
Now I don't mind
Some operas in modern dress,
Such as Gershwin's Porgy and Bess;
Yes, the words are heavily sung,
But at least I understand the tongue!
As for that opera called Carmen, by Bizet,
The French are good at some things, like souffle,
But for music, give me tunes that I can
Listen to, such as those by Richard Clayderman!
For I will make no bones
About it,
And will even shout it:
You can keep Carmen but give me Carmen Jones!
Because I never understood before
That Carmen meant "love"
When she sings in that romantic groove
About "amour"!
Now I enjoy an aria,
If it sounds like "Tonight" or "Maria"!
Or "Embraceable You," sung by Ella,
And even show tunes from The Most Happy Fella!
But how can I enjoy a melody
When it sounds like Butterfly's Un Bel Di?
Who can listen to music that sounds so arty,
Tuneless songs like Vissi d'arte?
I'd rather be dead
Than listen! Give me, instead,
Roses of Picardy!
Nothing like a tune by Haydn Wood
To put me in a mellow
And a tranquil mood!
While I can't imagine a less fortunate fellow,
Than having to listen to the jealous Othello
Stamping across the stage, and bringing
Curses down on Desdemona, and all this time he's singing!
It's bad enough threatening to put out the light,
And then put out the light,
But does he have to sing about it all night?
The fifth time is the worst time,
As if we hadn't heard it the first time!
And what could have inspired
That genius, Richard Wagner, to show,
Tristan and Isolde singing for a slow
Five hours before they expired?
It's bad enough for them to have this fling
And then lie
About it to Mark, their king,
As they wait to die!
But must they also sing
About it in song
All evening long?
If I must listen to how love goes on,
I'd rather hear it sung by Celine Dion!
Not that it's a better song
Than Isolde's liebestodt, but not nearly as long!
And must Isolde sing
Of her romantic fling
In a single monotonous key,
So that we cannot tell her ecstasy
From her suffering?
Like trying to separate the woods from the trees,
Or the topping of cheese
On the pizza after the cook's sneeze!
And what is her conclusion?
That love is an illusion!
So after sitting still for five boring hours,
I get the same message as I got in Schopenhauer's
The World as Will and Idea, only even more pensive,
Since the book was not nearly as expensive!
And what is the simple message,
Of Wagner's teutonic musical stage?
That Romantic love
Is triumphantly above
The potion's curse of love.
And what does this prove
About the potion's curse?
For Isolde discovers, with her dying breath,
That love, after all, is only death!
Or is it the reverse?
And how silly can you get
To let the two lovers sing a crazy duet,
Let alone
One
That goes on and on;
As they sing about their passion,
In typically operatic fashion,
Discussing the pros and cons of love
And slowly dying
In melodically chromatic sighing?
And what strange romantic bliss
Is this
Kind of ethereal love,
Which pretends to be above
Even so much
As a physical touch,
Or even a kiss?
Indeed, the fact is,
If we can
Believe Tristan,
The only physical pain
Of making love is the vocal strain
Of singing about it!
I could do without it!
For what an inane
And slow
Musical show
Is this manic
Liebestod;
Like the sinking of the boat,
Titanic!
I confess
(And you might already guess)
I find an operatic Cupid,
Rather comical, and also stupid,
Whether Wagner's liebestod or Bizet's amor.
And my own romantic ardor
Is confined to the bedroom or the parlor!
For whatever the aesthetic fashion of the age,
There are better places to make love than on the stage!
Because, by the time that all the singing is done,
The singing bores just about everyone!
Give me music that is more mellow,
Something like a ballad by Novello!
And in addition, you can keep
Stories about people unable, or unwilling, to sleep
Such as furies like Lucia or Norma,
And sleepless riddlers who sing of Nessun Dorma!
Give me, rather, Miss Saigon,
Or the tuneful Aida by Elton John,
And that's,
In my opinion, even better than Cats!
Such musical songs are, to my mind,
Almost as good as Candle in the Wind!
I admit to being rather droll,
Perhaps even losing control,
And becoming too emotional,
Against those overly devotional
To operatic display: such as an antiquarian
Vociferous man
Like you find warbling in the Metropolitan,
In either French, German, Russian, or Italian,
(And sometimes even Hungarian)
Arias that are merely for vocal show
And seem to have nowhere to go
Except repeating words, like "vincero, vincero, vincero"!
Where every high note sounds like a squawk,
In strange tongues unknown to good goils of Noo Yawk!
For try as I might, neither angel nor genie,
Can make me like the music of Puccini!
Even the most beautiful date
Attired in a gorgeous gown and earrings ornate,
Cannot help me to appreciate
That kind of musical extravaganza
(Except as sung by Mario Lanza):
Where a 300-pound soprano sings
Of her many romantic flings,
Or worse: of her consumptive sufferings.
For it is perfectly clear to see
(At least it is obvious to me),
That before and after every matinee
She pigs out on the hotel buffet!
Thus, to conclude
(And not to be rude
But to be merely emphatic),
I despise everything operatic!
The music that I love you deride,
The music that you love, I cannot abide!
Who listens to Barber, but you alone?
Your tastes are poor, unlike my own!
But I ask of you, "Who listens to Elliot Carter?"
The answer is plain: whoever is smarter!
I have studied the composers on your list.
It is plain that they are easily dismissed
By informed music lovers having refined taste--
And this is not something that I say in haste!
How do I define taste? The answer is clear!
Good taste is whatever music I like to hear!
I have pondered over this, hard and long
And have even tried to write it in a song,
But in the kind of music that artistically survives:
Not by Chadwick or Gershwin or Copland but by Ives.
Now I am certain of this as I am that I exist,
The composers that I love outshine those on your list.
And I've known many music-lovers and none could bear
To listen to the music that I do not like to hear.
I do not claim to be a critic of the age,
But I know what I like, and I like John Cage.
But why argue taste like this for so long
When my taste is right and your taste is wrong?
My standards for good taste are many and ample.
(I suggest you take a look at my sample.)
I had rather listen to noise by Marilyn Manson
Than suffer through a symphony by Howard Hanson!
I ask that you open your ears and open your eyes:
The music you love is the music I despise!
You say Hanson and I say Carter,
You are dumber and I am smarter,
Dumber, smarter, Hanson, Carter
Let's call the whole thing off,
I'll take Ives, you take Rachmaninov!
Anatomy is destiny.
Sigmund Freud.
Well, most of us have unluckily readSigmund Freud.
The postings in a rather comical thread
Concerning the biologically frail anatomy
Of the masculine sex: I mean the male anatomy!
According to this post, as I understand it,
(Although hesitant to use explicit nomenclature)
Someone did not like his anatomy, as Nature
Rather insufficiently planned it.
And therefore, however immature,
He hopes to increase his manly stature
Somewhat, by making himself bigger than he is,
Not as Nature intended, by the natural device
Of physical attraction, whether naughty or nice,
But by the prosthetic means of artifice.
Who knows
How his thinking goes,
Or whether he successfully grows?
For he might make himself bigger above,
Or try for,
Even die for,
Bigger below;
Making himself more able in love.
But, then again,
If he enlarged his brain,
Twice its size, or so,
He might be able to know,
A little more intelligently,
His world, reading Shakespeare and Poe
And Henry David Thoreau,
Rather than too diligently
Let his masculinity grow.
With what results, we can only guess,
Whether it leads to happiness
Or unforeseen anatomical
And even comical
Distress!
But even to double
The size of his brain
Might also be in vain,
Adding only to his trouble.
Since to his regret
He might only get
A bigger headache for his pain!
He might, again, grow bigger ears,
But then, you know,
This might raise reasonable fears
Of resembling Ross Perot,
Or, even more funny,
Making him look a lot like Bugs Bunny!
And a bigger nose might
Make him look like a sight
And arouse an unexpected feminine fright
After an otherwise romantic night,
In the moonlit glow;
As his date
Just about to capitulate
Sees him clearly in the light
Of dawn, the morning after,
Looking less like Leonardo
And more like Cyrano,
Inciting her to hideous laughter,
Ruining all his hopes of sexual bliss
By making his proboscis
Resemble that of Pinocchio.
He should have made his toe
Bigger instead,
But then he would not fit in bed.
Perhaps he has decided on the quicker means
To make his body, if not more attractive,
At least more physically active.
Perhaps in this way he will look better in jeans.
Or perhaps he is not satisfied with the way he was born,
And hopes to be spared the unseemly scorn
Of women, who would be less likely to laugh
If he was scaled to the size of a giraffe.
Perhaps with a size as long as that,
He would be the tallest of all, even without a hat!
Just think what succulent fruit would be in store.
And if he eats a lot, he can still eat more!
And he does not even need
To be frustrated; to coax or to plead,
Or to try too hard: For what the heck,
All he has to do is to crane his neck!
Or, perhaps, built as big as King Kong
He could do anything all night long,
(Whatever it is gorillas like to do).
He would never get tired, unlike me and you.
And never weaken, but always be strong,
Like a dying swan, dying with a song.
And however long
It might take,
Doing it all the while,
Not with a frown,
But with a smile,
Patiently, like a woman might bake
A cake
In a chiffon gown.
But what kind of pleasure would that be,
Athletically swinging in bed, or from a tree?
However, a little sympathy is due
This gentleman. For I'm telling you:
Swinging on a tree, or swinging on a star,
We all wish to be bigger than we are.
But appearances may deceive
And some in public boast, but privately grieve.
And it is important to remember,
If I may be so bold,
That even Arnold
Schwarzenegger might have a wee member
In his family household.
For Arnold, who is unusually tall,
Proved, in a film, that from the same mother,
He had Danny DeVito as his brother,
Despite Danny being elfishly small.
Then see how the audience grins,
When eventually they discover
Before the movie is over
That they are not only brothers, but twins!
Besides, sometimes less is certainly more,
And then, I ask, not how big, but what is bigger for?
For there be some, such as Michelangelo,
Who measure size way above their head,
While others there be who, instead,
Only measure what is down below.
Pleasing themselves the best they can,
In the manner common for the common man
Whether on dancefloors or in bed,
Enjoying themselves on their feet,
No less than with strangers that they meet,
Instead of pleasing others after they are dead.
But perhaps this is all in one man's mind,
Which must be of a typically masculine kind
To be concerned about matters best ignored,
Like how big you are, or how much you've scored.
For this kind of obsession is to be deplored!
Men should be satisfied with the way that they are built,
Since nobody sees anyway when you're under the quilt.
And you'll discover that all the fuss was about
Really nothing, once the lights are out.
And forget the myth that classical music lovers are wimps,
As bad as the myth that all jazz lovers are pimps!
Forget this typically sexist taunt,
Since neither men nor women know what they want.
Or to use the German form of the sexist jibe:
In Freud's words, "Was will das Weib?"
But in the Battle of the Sexes, I will never take sides,
For some devils are grooms, while others are brides!
And either sex can cause the other equal torment
Over what Nature either intended or meant.
And this can be on a beach, or in broad daylight,
Or in the sanctuary of one's wedding night.
For now, however, I focus on only one sex,
Tormented by an anatomical hex.
So here I am addressing only you guys
And I hope that this post will put some of you wise.
Perhaps, if you're lucky, you'll open up your eyes!
Remember that happiness is not about size!
And I shall quote the Beatle, John Lennon,
Who, with typical incantatory charm
Sang that happiness was a warm,
Not a terribly big, gun.
And you can take me at my word,
Most women do not walk around with a measuring rod,
Calling one man a nerd
And another a god
Simply based on the difference of an inch or two.
For women have far
More important things to do
Than measuring up how big you are!
Or, to argue in another way,
I can honestly, and with conviction, say
That some women, after all,
Only care for something very small,
Like a kitten or an even smaller thing,
Such as a ruby or a diamond ring.
Some women, I surmise,
Would be content with a physical wreck
Once they were satisfied
With the adequate size
Of the twerp's paycheck
Or his insurance dividend after he died!
And if they really fall in love,
They tend to rise above
A question of size and inches,
Caring more about smooches and pinches.
Perhaps an evening of cuddling up close,
Is what they look for in their beaus,
Touching cheek to cheek, or rubbing nose to nose.
And while men think about size, with a shameful smile,
The woman, meanwhile,
Is not so passionately delerious
And pondering issues a lot more serious.
This is quite commonly known
And in fact is easily shown.
For if a man comes up short,
It is almost always afterwards, in court,
Proving that the inevitable course
Of physical love always ends in divorce.
For men can never understand
That delerious illness known as Romance,
As Nature haphazardly planned
For it to be, which is a kind of weird trance,
At least for men! For women are always wide awake
Planning carefully the relationship, for their own sake,
Thinking mostly in terms of their financial stake.
Although necessity requires that they fake
A little, pretending they only want to love and to bake
A little. Let me elaborate somewhat on this
So you can follow my argument,
The way that I mean and not the way that you meant!
The main point of my argument is
That men and women are really different,
In the same way that mom is different from dad;
Which makes, ahem,
Both of them
Very glad
And is, in fact, the very basis
Of domestic happiness and conjugal bliss,
Assuming this
Is what you are after. Thus
For example, while you are making a fuss
Trying to steal a kiss
Or even two,
Don't you know
That the woman is
Planning that very special day,
In every way,
Even down to her white trousseau,
When, in regal style,
She'll be walking down the aisle
With you?
So listen, you nerds,
If she looks at a man's lips
At all, I can assure you that it is
Only to hear the uxorious words,
"I do!"
Rather than expecting a kiss.
So let me try
To give you a few tips
In order to simplify
The issues: A woman does not measure a man's hips,
Or, as the case may be, ahem,
Measure what is below them!
For she is much too busy being pensive
Planning her rather expensive
Global honeymoon trips!
To sum up my argument,
It takes more than size
To make a gent,
Just like it takes more than lies
To prove the truth of what you meant!
And far be it for a woman to harangue with a yardstick,
Measuring the size of every Harry, Tom or Dick.
She has far more important things on her mind,
Like whether Harry is the marrying kind,
Or whether Tom can be content
Raising seven children in a swank apartment.
Or whether Dick is man enough to pay the rent
For an expensive condominum
At prices in the new millennium!
And even more thoughts perplex
Her mind,
Of the conjugal kind
More pressing than sex.
Such as if a beau
Would think it a bother
To share an apartment,
Whether the rent
Be high or low,
With a cantankerous mother,
Not to mention a schizophrenic
Sister and an alcoholic brother!
So who cares if your size is photogenic
Or not? And if she loves classical music too
Then she takes a more refined point of view.
For she is less interested in rough
Prosthetic playmates than
In cultural things to do,
Such as discussing Rachmaninov,
Or any other composer she can
Discuss in comfortable luxury. In other words,
You insecure nerds,
Regardless how small her little man,
She is not concerned again and again
To compare you to other men
That she may have met now and then,
Although now she can't remember when,
Or at which place,
And, God knows, she never can remember a face!
So fear less the manly disgrace
In a woman's eyes,
As she compares you in matters of size
With others she has known,
When she was living on her own;
Whether you are too gentle or unconvincingly rough,
Or whether your size is even good enough
To measure up,
Than with how well you know your Boris Godunov
So the two
Of you
Can talk together as you sup,
Romantically clinking glasses of wine
As you dine
In a manner truly feminine!
And if she is concerned with size at all,
It is the size of your classical
Compact Disc collection,
Hoping that you have every selection
That she never before
Had the money to buy.
And, what is more,
The kind of music that can make her sigh,
Not incite her to rage,
Like the music of Ives or John Cage!
I mean the kind of music that can almost make her cry,
Such as the Brahms Piano Concerto Number Two,
Which will make her happy that she married you,
Although, to admit a point or two,
You may be smaller than she is accustomed to!
For in her typically refined fashion,
If she ever thinks about passion
It is usually only in the refined form
Of the musically Baroque norm,
Such as the Passion of St. John or St. Matthew,
Which she prefers to listen to
With a penthouse view,
While her aged mother
In still another
Well-furnished room, sits all alone
Listening to Bing Crosby groan.
And if the thought of an organ ever crosses her mind
At all, it is usually only the well-tempered kind.
And so, for the unfortunate bloke
Concerned about his size, the joke
Is really on you.
Since, if my insights here are typically true,
There is nothing at all for you to rue,
Or to conceal behind a cloak
Of embarrassment or shame.
For, as I have endeavored to show,
In the familiar romantic game,
That I have tried accurately to evoke,
A woman may, in fact, show
More concern
With how much you earn,
Or with the Baroque
Repertoire,
Than with how big or how small you are!
Many a time
I have pondered
The crime
Of money
And I've wondered
Why I don't have any of it
When others have so many of it!
To be frank,
Why do some own swank
Houses?
While my house
Is low-rent,
And not so swell
With a dank
Smell
And insolent
Mouses!
Is there something wrong with me
That has cursed me with poverty?
Or are the wealthy really only louses
Who married rich spouses?
Wouldn't it be funny
If they married for money?
I cannot but have the moralistic thought
That love is something that cannot be bought!
And it is still a stronger moral argument,
That we should not marry just to pay the rent!
But when I look around at the homely pigsty
That I live in,
I cannot help but give in,
And cry,
Why
Didn't I?
What for
Did I marry for poor?
Wouldn't it be better fun
To have a place in the sun?
I mean
I would love to change my scene.
And I would no longer whine
If what is yours was really mine!
For living can hardly be enjoyed
When one is undereconomically employed!
What kind of marital bliss
Is this
If me and my Miss,
Are too busy making money
To kiss
Each other and call
Us Honey?
Is this all
There is to marriage
Bad plumbing and a broken baby carriage?
The pastor never explained me this
When he made me promise to have and to hold,
For rich or
For poor,
And the rest of it!
But you can't have marital bliss
Without the gold!
I see that I'm in a financial pit
Without it
And I'm having an emotional fit
About it!
Why does money taunt me
So,
Causing such monetary woe?
Why does money haunt me,
Like something I badly want
But really can't?
Like a woman I love
Who doesn't care a bit?
Or a glove
That doesn't fit?
Why Money, dost thou flaunt Thee?
Why doesn't money want me
Like I want it?
Why do some folks have it?
And who gave it?
Did they save it?
I wish they would be
Kind enough to lave it
To me!
For if they were done with it
How I would have fun with it!
I wouldn't regret it
If I could get it,
Even steal it,
Just to feel it!
And when I am no longer poor,
And swimming in gold,
If the truth were to be told
I would still want more
Although God knows what for!
But as a representative kind
Of Economic Man,
I find
That I am not necessarily
Predestined to be
Part of God's benevolent financial plan!
Is it because
Santa Claus
Only makes toys
For good little boys,
Like Casper or Ben
But doesn't give money to good little men?
Or is it because he never stops
On the rooftops
Of those without it,
But only gives it to those
Who, Heaven knows,
Have more than enough, and flout it?
Is this why the rich get richer, while the poor
To their undeserved shame
Don't have a dollar to their name?
This is all the same
To them, since although
They don't have it anymore,
As you probably know,
They never really had it before.
So, having gone before without shoes
Walking on the street,
You can say they have nothing to lose
Except their feet.
But now, about my own situation
I ask, without hesitation,
Is there a rational explanation
Why in tarnation
I am always behind
Paying the rent?
It seems,
That despite all my well-wrought financial schemes
I spend all of my time trying to find
Where all my money went!
It wouldn't matter anyway
If I had some left from my measly pay.
For come that certain day
On which my rent is due
Even had I a dollar or two,
It is very clear that I could not so much afford
A newspaper or a loaf of bread,
Since I would have to give it all
To my greedy landlord
Instead!
No wonder I drink too much alcohol
And have an aching head!
Because on the day
That this month's rent is due,
I have to pay
For last month's too!
I must admit
I resent it,
At least a little bit.
I mean, I don't have a cent
Without even having spent it!
Now I know what Richard III meant
By the winter of our discontentment!
Like him, mostly out of resentment,
I have decided to particpate
In this semantically elaborate
Philosophical thread
On earning one's bread.
I don't mean, of course,
The kind that you bake,
A kind of poor man's cake;
I mean the kind that you make,
Sometimes a lot of,
If you're Ross Perot,
But usually what you don't got of
Any to show,
Whether you work hard for it or no!
Where did it go?
I admit
That I somewhat hesitate
A little bit
To get into such a heated debate,
About the way that money might or might not
Inequitably accumulate.
You might take me to task
For daring to ask
The righteous question: Which
Should we more
Deplore?
The idle rich
Or
The idle poor?
I admit from the start
That money might only be a necessary part
Of a capitalistic plot
By those that got!
Since, after all,
If you can
Scholastically recall,
The economic rule
That you learned in school,
Economic Man
Is an
Avaricious wolf to man.
According to sophisticated Marxist analysis,
This will dialectically tend,
Necessarily to end
In economic paralysis.
And in any capitalistic nation
Man is subject, anyway
To monetary exploitation,
Which, in plain English, means rotten pay.
But having thought the problem through
I have found
That in the communistic plan
It is no less true
The other way around.
In other words,
Rearranging the words,
In the opposite way you can,
Man is still a wolf to man!
Therefore why bother with analysis
If we end up noplace like this?
Why bother being theoretical
If in the end we find
After searching for all the answers in our mind
That some are short for not being tall
Or others can't see for being blind?
Proof that Man is not innately theoretic,
But more naturally athletic;
Since there are better things to do with one's brain
Than thinking of economic loss and gain,
When it is far easier to suffer physical pain
Than mental strain!
Thus despite cyberspace retorts
Man is mostly interested in sports.
And if man thinks of anything
It is about the hopes that cling
To the changes of the seasons, such as spring,
And the days of summer that bring
Mark McGuire up to take a mighty swing.
And what man fears most of all
Only happens in the fall:
It's when the quarterback drops the ball,
Or else the referee
Has the audacity
To make a rotten call.
But, admittedly,
Come the end of the football season,
Man begins to turn his human reason
To issues of a different kind,
Such as the numbers of the universe,
Or how to go from poor to worse!
Financial issues that can rack Man's mind;
Fears that keep him wide awake at night
As he adds up zeroes in the dim lamplight
That hardly answer his fears
Of where his money disappears.
But it doesn't matter where his money went to
When the day of the month is due
To pay his income's revenue,
Since, because he didn't save it
He doesn't have it!
You should have thought
When you bought
That fax, man,
That you'd need money left to pay the taxman!
And when your wife asked for liposuction,
As an easy means of weight reduction,
You should have asked, instead, to include
As a tax deduction,
All the money that she spent on food
So if you wonder where your money went,
Just ask how much your Honey spent!
Thus money is what Man wishes to hold on to.
But Man always asks where has it gone to?
An economist might ask this quesion for most of his life,
And, writing books, become monetarily wise,
Even winning, in time, the Nobel Prize.
But a married man will simply ask his wife.
Now if Man is a wolf to Man,
It follows that if he earns a ton
Of money, he needs a gun
To keep it. But still better is a savings plan.
Yet even the savings of those who can
Are ruined by Capitalistic Man.
At least this is the theoretical
Thesis of Marx's Capital.
In this book, Marx laboriously explains
How the economically needy
Work each and every day
Barely earning decent pay,
Yet with nothing at all to show for their pains.
No wonder that they pay their mortgage late!
Thus, always needing money to spend,
They somehow don't
Have the commendable charity to appreciate
The benevolence of the economically great;
Since they are oppressed by all the greedy
Rich with the money to lend
But who greedily won't.
Now this is the best that I can comprehend
About the subject of borrow and lend.
As for theoretical economics, I readily admit
That I haven't researched the topic a bit.
I prefer to leave theoretical money on the shelf
And to accumulate the real money for myself.
Since I came in rather late to this argument
I'm a bit confused about what all of you meant,
With terms such as slosh
And (gosh)
Social disenfranchisement!
But from what I can understand
There's a conspiracy in hand
To befuddle, entrap, or otherwise manipulate
The citizens of each nation state
So that they will eat less than they should have ate.
In other words, to keep each and everyone in thrall
Under the monetary thumb of Capital.
Now this might make no real sense
If we believe that Man is free,
But this is a capitalistic myth, you see:
For we are really all
A captive audience
To Capital;
Kind of like seeing a sneak preview,
Where you can't get out,
Although you don't know what the movie is all
About,
And you can't even depend on Maltin's review!
Now some would hardly dare
Question the right of the individual's welfare,
But they argue, instead,
That there is no necessary friction
Between the different classes
Of a capitalistic nation.
Except, that is, in the economic fiction
Of Karl Marx's head.
He should, instead,
Have used Hegel's pair of glasses!
So if anyone complains
About their financial situation
It is because they are really in chains
To an overwrought, even insanely paranoid
Imagination.
Perhaps these men
Are truly oppressed. But, then again,
Perhaps they are only truly unemployed!
Some would call these people credulous asses,
The kind that believe that birds fly on helium gasses!
While others would differently claim
That we're all really economically the same.
And even more
That no-one's to blame
For the poor being poor,
Or
The reason that they are that way for.
Like asking why a doorway has a door!
After all, we limp because we're lame!
It's as simple as that,
And some people just end up flat
On the mat
And feel kind of dumb,
Wondering how come?
But this has less to do with manly pluck
And more to do with rotten luck:
Like arriving in Iceland, forgetting your hat,
Or making a getaway and getting a flat,
Or researching cancer and being a rat,
Or modeling clothes and being too fat,
Or barking at strangers and being a cat,
Or having a pitbull and forgetting to pat,
Or taking hot showers in a cold-water flat,
Or marrying an emotionally immature,
egotistical, socially dysfunctional, culturally
illiterate, sexually frigid, maternally-dependent,
clinically depressed, harebrained, pony-tailed brat,
Or appearing on Leno unable to chat,
Or toasting champagne and finding it flat,
Or being Cliff Richard and trying to scat,
Or hitting cleanup and forgetting your bat,
Or stripping for Heffner and being too flat,
Or having an alibi that is a little too pat,
Or having no cotton and having to tat,
Or being stung by bees, unable to scat,
Or having dinner with Joe Gein in his flat,
Or being hip, not knowing where it's at,
Or, even worse,
Writing light verse
And having to rhyme eighteen lines with "hat"!
But others argue in Karl Marx's formidable name
And insolently dare
To challenge Adam Smith's claim
Of laissez faire!
For in Marx we find
The idea that all philosophical cogitation
Of an economic kind
Is a product of the bougeois imagination
Playing havoc with the mind!
Like getting off at the wrong railway station:
Thinking, for example, that you are
Happily in Edinborough
When actually you ended up in Glasgow!
You might as well be on another star!
I can, of course, think of some things worse,
Like waking up in a sealed-up hearse
Or reading too many lines of bad light verse!
But this is really a question of opinions,
For some people don't cry
But, instead, die
Laughing while peeling onions!
Now if you have a different point of view
I admit
That it
Too
May be true:
That, indeed, the theory of the predatory
Capitalistic man
Is part of a mythic Marxist story,
Or maybe just part of a college-reading plan.
Perhaps, after all, there is no real glory
In having too much money;
Like getting sick on too much honey.
Or like too much blood can make your victim gory.
Too much of a good thing, I have been told,
Is like too much cold,
Which can make you hoary,
Or, if you don't dress right,
Give you frostbite.
Or like too many years, which can make you old.
And don't forget,
Even multimillionaires sometimes regret
The money that they have.
For if they don't remember to save,
They may end up as paupers in the grave.
For example, Rock stars
Who make millions strumming their electric axes
End up poor, or even behind bars,
If they forget to pay their taxes.
Of course, there is always a welter
Of excuses for never
Doing so.
And some stars are clever
Enough to know
How to use Switzerland as a tax shelter.
In this way,
They never,
Or, like Gilbert's Major-General, hardly ever,
Have any taxes to pay
Until their luxurious dying day.
But then their spouses must suffer the pains
Of the tax on capital gains.
However, there are worse things, I opine,
Like making money off of Auld Lang Syne.
And with all the money that Sir Cliff now earns,
It should have gone to the estate of Robert Burns!
But having money is probably a proprietary right
Of being a contemporary British knight.
So maybe it is worth to contemplate
The idea that the philosophical belief
In the divinely established state
Has caused a lot of economic grief.
In this theory, the bourgeoisie
Might unkowingly collaborate
In its own misery,
Like a church-goer might not hesitate
To put money in the collection plate,
Even though the sermon
Has been a very boring one,
Putting him into a deep
Sleep!
Thus it is really an overactive imagination
The leads to bourgeois social subjugation.
That is to say, the mind seems to incline
To believe that some are mortal and others divine.
Fair enough, except for
This economic hitch:
That the mortals are always poor,
And the divine are always rich.
This can be easily shown
In a manner regally overblown
By studying Henry the Eighth's marital flings.
These were possible only because
British commoners believed in the parliamentary clause
Concerning the Divine Right of Kings.
If they had believed in commonsense instead
Just think of it!
Anne Boleyn would have kept her head
And might not have suffered a bit!
In fact, all of Henry's other wives
Would have lived much longer lives.
Whether married or not I cannot say,
Although Henry would have loved them anyway,
Whether to produce an heir or just for play.
Hollywood, of course, would have had to find other ways
To name the movie, Anne of a Thousand Days!
But I admit
That it
Is no more than speculation
That the foundation of the state
Is built on the economically elaborate
Capitalistic enterprize
Known as monetary peculation.
This is the rationalized situation
Where economic facts conceal a lot of lies.
But libertarian fears of a skittish mind
Have fostered philosophies of the British kind,
Where every man is conceived as a wolf to man,
Until he enters a Social Compact, or contractual plan.
As, for example, in the famous book, Leviathan,
Where Thomas Hobbes constructs an odd political tale,
Comparing the nation state to a mammoth whale!
Perhaps Thomas Hobbes believed in every word
Of Shakespeare's Richard II and Richard III!
But I am really in no position to say
Since I am too busy making a living at sub-standard pay;
For an analysis of economic stages
Is only for those who read books for their wages,
Like scholars in Ivory Towers
Who use imaginary dirt to nurture real flowers.
Now I don't really mean to pick
On the tenured faculty academic,
Who, considerably well read
In what everyone else has said,
If he doesn't have an idea in his head
Uses a lot of footnotes instead;
Who engages in any intellectual caper
Provided that it will produce a publishable paper;
Or, better yet,
Engender a pet
Ideological theory
That will cause a cultural commotion,
Which will make all of us weary,
(Such as that Mozart's music lacked emotion,
Or that Handel's Hallelujah Chorus
Can't help but bore us
And is rather dreary),
When their only notion
Is to apply for promotion!
And writing in this scholastic way
They tell us that Franz Schubert was really gay.
Now using a lot of archival quotes
Not to mention frequent intertextual notes,
One scholar eloquently emotes
That invisible angels hover
Directly over
Us in every room,
At least if you read the books of Harold Bloom.
So when you read a theory it is all your fault
If you take it with less than a grain
Of salt.
And this is even more true when one tries to explain
An economic bust or boom
Or financial loss and gain
Based on a world-historical economic theory
That ignores the common man in England or in Spain.
And to think that they singled out Timothy Leary
For saying, "Turn on, tune in, and drop out,"
When at least he knew what he was talking about!
But what does an academic really care
About what I say?
Many will become a millionaire
In their Ivory Towers anyway;
At least if they cause enough conniption
To boost their university's tuition.
But as for me, I rather doubt
That theories are something I can't do without.
And to protect myself
From the latest theory on the shelf
Whatever it is that someone might write
I tend to believe in the very opposite.
And since it is hardly possible to prove
A theory anyway, I prefer the food of love,
As Shakespeare said, which is musical harmony,
Such as in a Haydn sonata or Mozart symphony!
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