The Oboe and The Clarinet

Oh no,

She played the Oboe,

Secured her place in the music group, 

Yet I played piano to such poor standard,

I'd never get let,

Into the loop,

(Never could jump through that hoop)

For Tuesday nights practice she'd walk down the path, all staccato,

Heels on the path that led to our home,

And as the group tuned up in our lounge, all vibrato,

I'd sit in my room, on my bed, all alone,

(and follow the tones of the drone)

I'd see if I could pick out the notes of the oboe,

The oboe was the one that sounds like a duck,

And I was a wolf that hunted those sounds,

And lay in my lair, just cursing my luck,

(and the taunts of the blow and the suck)

Sometimes while the worship group practiced away,

I'd slink out and see if the door was ajar,

And a slight sight of her would shine through the sliver,

And 8 feet away, I'd worship her from afar,

(Her glorious hair was the sun and the star)

I'd watch her on Sundays, licking her lips,

Puffing her cheeks, fingering notes,

Furrowing her brow in pure concentration,

Pinning it down while my fantasy floats,

(Thoughts floating away like cut-adrift boats)

"As the deer pants for the water" played,

But my soul longed after you,

I pictured our duet, me stood by your side,

Our notes making one out of two,

(Our harmony creating melody new)

And how, as a boy of 14, to make this happen?

To facilitate this fantasy?

It would take a miracle of biblical proportions,

To make my fingers smooth 'cross the keys,

(Like the calming of Galilee's seas)

I'd never make the grade for the the worship group,

With my playing so bad it made everyone groan,

And with so many pianists, filling the chairs in our church,

I needed a niche of my own,

(where my hidden talents could be shown)

She had the oboe all covered, 

And Jenny the bird on the flute,

And Robin rocked violently the violin,

So what could I play that would suit?

(Something that would quickly bear fruit)

What would sound good and what would be easy?

And at what could I quickly get good?

Woodwind would be the most complimentary,

I probably should get wood if I could,

(an instrument, just to be understood)

If I chose the oboe it would be too obvious,

And that, I'd obviously regret,

But the need for the reed seemed to impede,

Most other instruments, but not clarinet,

(And they had one at school I could get!)

So I abandoned my seven year piano itch,

And borrowed my Dad's Acker Bilk

Taking up the Clarinet, Starting out rough as rope,

I determined to become smooth as silk,

(and to get all the sweet sounds I could milk)

With practices racked and hallway passes,

With lessons booked and time off classes

With blown up blood vessels burst and red cheeks like arses,

And dry chapped lips, enough time at last passes,

And I persuade my dad, to let me join the group.

And he concedes reluctantly to let me into the loop,

But only the practices 'till I'm good enough,

And I agree because clearly my playing's abominably rough,

And so at last my first Tuesdays night comes,

And I'm dressed up and my hair is all gelled,

And I'm wearing something smelly and sticky under my arms,

 But I'm not sure how good it smelled,

(and I was just praying that the gel held)

The Clearasil is clearly not working,

and you can clearly still see the spots sprouting too,

The fashion is more than questionable,

But maybe the music will shine through,

(Maybe she'll hear 'I love you')

So shyly I sit in a corner,

And decide to play only the notes I can play,

But to do that I have to read the music,

And read it in time, to my horror I find there's no way,

(I'll just pose and sort of awkwardly sway)

And it turns out I'm not Simon or Garfunkel,

And the sounds of silence won't bring me women or fame

And Oh no, not the girl with the Oboe,

With slender fingers and hair of flame

(And six months practice now thrown down the drain)

And my first was the last Tuesday night practice,

And I went back to worship from afar,

And a few weeks later dumped the Clarinet,

And the next year picked up the guitar,

But oh how the wolf was outshone

By that little red-head riding hood,

And the mournful seductive sound of the duck,

That had caused him to want to be good