The Little Eighth Grader Could not Dream of Massenet’s Tortured Flow of Music as Well as Did that Prostitute, Thaïs

The Little Eighth Grader Could not Dream of Massenet’s Tortured Flow of Music as Well as Did that Prostitute, Thaïs

 

I started with my love in seventh grade.

My teacher wanted me to learn the drums,

But mother…sax.  What put them in the shade

Was silver sound.  The rest were cracker crumbs

Or rotten cheese.  I chose to play the flute.

At eighth grade graduation I performed.

The teacher chose for me to toot, toot, toot

The “Meditation” from Thaïs.  It swarmed

The church with notes like nectar from on high

In music made of silk and honey on

The desert sand of Sin.  When martyrs sigh,

They think like this in Christ’s long, perfect dawn.

Today I got to go to Covent Garden for

The tickets.  I did not predict that shore.