At break-time in rehearsals
A flute lay on a chair
And let out little silver sighs
Of sorrow and despair.
Her heart had just been broken
By a cruel cor anglais
Who’d charmed her with his double reed
And smooth, seductive ways.
He’d loved her con fuoco,
Their passion burned con brio
Till he spoiled it by asking if
She’d like to form a trio.
Betrayed, abandoned, cast aside
The poor flute wondered whether
She’d ever find an instrument
Who’d want to play together.
And then she saw another flute
Reclining at his ease
And as she stared a shiver ran
Along her trembling keys.
He shimmered in the spotlights’ gleam
That subtly revealed
His head-joint made from finest gold –
“A Louis Lot!” she squealed.
But then she wept, resigned herself
To love him from afar:
He’d never give a second glance
To a humble Yamaha.
But when the orchestra returned
Replete with cake and tea
He met her gaze and whispered
That he loved her desperately.
He wooed her with a Bach bourrée,
And a Mozart minuet
Then they made a little night music
As they played their first duet.
So now they’re happy, side by side
In harmony – and, who knows?
Perhaps she’ll quit the concert hall
And raise some piccolos.