by Rebecca Stone
During a Christmas (one that was cold),
My father decided (although being old),
To take up, again, an instrument with which
He might scare off good, old, Saint Nick.
The instrument in question scared off the cat,
The dog, the ducks and killed all the rats.
The sound was so bad that he moved to the shed,
So we would know, there was nothing to dread.
The bow, how he held it!
Our teeth, we would grit!
His fingers so bulky,
His tuning, so …
Fortunately for us, after three weeks of torture,
My father decided to cease on his overture,
The fiddle now stacked in the darkest of corners,
We now must endure the screech of recorders.
See 'Instruments of Torture - Part 1 here
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