song_of_thea

The very day Andrew penned that phrase,

Thoughts of anguish never crossed his mind.

His little melody, set in D,

Was meant to spark romantic yearnings

From the captive audience behind

The battlement of curtains and walls.

Still, the little melody in D

Begs for the listener to fondly

Reminisce hours after curtain

It needles and prods in practice rooms

And backstage- the siren, quite untrained

The pianist plucks each note for her,

Until hot tears of anguish escape

Whilst the siren, oblivious, sings.

“Think of me. Please! Do not forget me!”

Over and over until I shout

Out into the ether, “I curse you!

“I curse you, Andrew for this earworm!

That bumbles on relentless to all,

Save young sopranos who hope too much

And romanticize Stockholm plotlines

For the sake of a mediocre

Yet coveted chance in the spotlight.”

“Those poor inexperienced singers

Hustle and beg for a small part

In the musical, or opera- or

Stage drivel that you sloppily pen,

The directors and professors all

Pull at their wigs cursing, “Another!”

Wondering when this dreadful passion

For Great Andrew will finally cease

So that we can move on to Sondheim

Or Bareilles, Miranda or Mitchell

Or anyone with a better song

With compelling lyrics or perhaps

Non plagiarized melodies.

That hope to move on never arrives.

The goal is impossible to reach.

That dreadful little melody, set

In the brightest key of D major,

Once meant to spark feelings of romance.

It drudges up feelings of great dread,

I would rather fall down stone cold dead,

Than sit at the piano and tinkle

A rolling call of arpeggios

Beseeching the listener down that

Dark winding path of recollection.

For every note Dearest Andrew penned,

Hundreds of musicians are held bound

Captive, with nary more than mindless

Passing tones and tonics, dominants

Or pedal tones to console our minds

Escape from these phantoms which bind us

To our instruments and each other

Is for now, and evermore, futile.

Someday, my curse on you, Dear Andrew,

Will take hold.  And either you shall write

Something worthy of our fingers, or

You shall be forgotten, releasing

Us from musical imprisonment.