The Sadly Futile Pretence
“This is the last song that you’ll ever hear me play,” he roared.
He sat down at his organ, striking one great chord.
“…the last song that I’ll ever play in this damned pub!”
And he walked up to the organ while the boss looked bored.
He played a song he’d often played, but with a great emotion.
He played his heart out, as they say. He played with great devotion
To the theme, and as he finished with a grand dramatic pause,
He took his beer, he wiped a tear and looked for some applause.
But folk continued talking; clinking glass was all you heard.
For the saddest cut of all was that, in fact, nobody cared.
“They’ll see they cannot do without me. They’ll be sorry yet…!”
He was thinking this with every pounded note he played that set.
Just a drunken little fellow who showed up each night at six,
And who stayed till two each morning showing off his tattered tricks.
Who’d begun to think he owned the club – played host and bossed around
Other players who showed up to play. He had to share the stand.
And if someone had a birthday or a graduation day,
Or if someone wanted Strauss, or asked to sing, then he would play.
Good old Charlie-at-the-ready, with unsteady hand could
Play light opera or a folk song. In his genre good.
Not professional, but in his amateurish way he played quite well,
Playing harmonies – not incorrect – just, what shall we say, – stale.
Dearest Charlie, dear loud Charlie, he could turn a tune.
And he sometimes changed the light-bulbs in his home in the saloon.
I’d have sworn he’d gone forever, if you’d asked me on that night.
But on showing up myself next week, he’d far from taken flight.
Walking round the club as always, telling all who gave an ear,
How he’d fixed the mike, had cleaned the keys, wouldn’t say no to beer:
“A strong one, please!”
©The Sadly Futile Pretence 93.7.5
Vaguely About Music; Special People Special Occasions; Small Stories Book;
Arlene Corwin
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Arlene Corwin Poetry 