THE MUSICIAN

Magdalen always kept the perfect metre
When she played jazz to the boys
She didn't mind the foetid trombonist
Such were her flair and poise.

She hit the mother-lode with Tom and his ilk
Ensured she kept their unique sound
Enthralled her audience with orotund notes
And only charged a pound.

Magdalen was a mystic of the harp
She perched it straight between her knees
And vouched for the purity of the sound
By deliberately playing it off-key.

Neither of us could understand
How she learned to refract light
Or play the plumb-line like a banjo
It was a truly wondrous sight.

Magdalen sat on a stuffed horsehair couch
And revealed to us the blood-red weal
Caused by a fractured cello string
That removed her ability to feel.

She enthralled us with tales of musical soirees
with great sultans and potentates
From Darjeeling to the Malaysian Basin
Helped by a squeezebox king named Bates.

Now she's dead, a heart-attack in Ipswich
Playing the spoons at a charity do
At the ripe old age of ninety-nine
Her last words: 'Hope I've had a few.'