A bassoon is an instrument made out of wood,
An ill-wind that seldom, if ever, blows good.
And yet it is somehow in constant demand
By every conceivable manner of band.
Let musicians convene anytime, anywhere,
Let their number be legion -- there's one empty chair.
Yes, a fact that conductors do not find enthralling;
The dearth of bassoonists is downright appalling.
There are cellists by the dozen
And there's always someone's cousin
Who can double on the horn and slide trombone.
There are tympanists and flutists,
Violinists, harpists, lutists
And a score or more who play the sousaphone.
But
I
am the mother
of the only
LIVING
bassoonist
for hundreds of miles.
He's adored and sought after by maestros
With offbeat and classical styles.
He plays in three orchestras, four concert bands,
Two choirs, a woodwind quartet --
And anything he doesn't play in
They haven't invented as yet.
I've listened to music I don't understand
And singers who screech in a high key
For like a good mother, I'm always on hand
Or else I might ruin his psyche!
Oh
I
am the mother
of the only
LIVING
bassoonist
I've been introduced to.
And now that I listen to concerts each night
I don't even smile like I used to.
In fact, for a while I lost more than my smile,
I lost every vestige of sanity
Till I had an idea, a great panacea,
Designed to rekindle my vanity.
It isn't too easy to fight a bassoon
(Technically called a fagotto)
But now that old item, "In case you can't fight 'em,
Join 'em," is henceforth my motto.
I practiced in secret for hours on end,
I learned to obey a baton.
And now I'm excited, I'm thrilled and delighted,
My former frustrations are gone.
For
now
when they call for
MY SON
the
BASSOONIST
Our bargain could not be idealer
He'll surely be there -- but they must save a chair
For his mother, the great glockenspieler!