A poem about feeding a man his own clarinet. A reflection of thoughts that occur that we do not act on, no matter how cathartic they may be.
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Music is sound, music is sweet,
it never fails to sweep me off of my feet.
But, if you keep on with that stupid clarinet,
a swift and brutal end it will certainly meet.
I would make you swallow it.
Think of it as a nice treat;
the most musical sausage
you will ever eat.
I really do like music
do not think that I don't.
Through your pained screams you beg me to stop
but just know that I won't.
You may choose a starter if you so need.
I recommend a boiled seasoned clarinet reed.
I'd obviously allow water
to quench your thirst
but did you really think that
it would be the skinny end first?
Brutal though I am,
forcing it down your throat,
I would rather do this than hear
another single note.
You make me tired and cranky,
I'm trying to sleep in bed.
Make no mistake about
how I would have you fed.
I will make this annoying instrument
one of your worst fears,
the sirens of your ambulance taking you
away is more like music to my ears.
Now the night is quiet
and cosy in silent bliss,
the absence of clarinet noise
is sweeter than any angel's kiss.