Exquisite in pitch
the note, perfectly played.
Left the cello in triumph.
It would not be delayed.
A 'd' an 'e' or maybe an 'f',
quickly soaring,
into the night.
But 'twas of little consequence,
it died whilst in flight.
Why did it fade
so quickly and die,
and lie,
muted and silent?
It was slain by events,
both bizarre and violent.
How the other notes buzzed.
Angry bees, in her head.
Weeping, wailing,
demanding release.
"It's not possible" she cried,
"the cello's deceased
It died as the bow,
I drew barely just once across.
Creating the note,
Your comrade,
Your loss.
Who would have led you boldly,
up into the gods.
For you to fall, softly, gently.....
It was the brass section. The sods".

'Avant Garde'.
Had cried the composer
boldly and crass.
But 'twas a revolution too far,
mixing strings with the brass.
The bassoons thundered,
then guitars did shriek.
The French horns were strident,
the violins were meek.
The bullying baton
bade the brass section cease.
And ordered the cello's.
'On your feet, if you please'.
Her left hand is flexed,
fingers firm to strings.
All cello's are standing,
as courtier's for kings.
But still plays a rogue,
a trombone with no pride.
And the poor cellist's wrist,
is struck by the slide.
And the good people sitting,
they saw the blow.
'Twas the trombonists slide,
That laid the note low.