Friday, February 26, 2016


"Some day, George," said the music master
You will be king. You will reign decades
Go mad, go sane, go mad again
And stay that way. A long white beard
Straggles down your chest; no one
Thinks it wise to let you near a razor.
Oh, you will also become almost blind
Stumbling through the palace, arguing
With dead ministers. Your only consolation,
Perhaps, will be the hours you spend
Playing the harpsichord, boldly and inaccurately
As befits a trueborn king. Usually
You will play something by Handel. But this
All depends on your learning it now."
"What did you say? I'm sorry, Sir;
The gardener's daughter passed by outside."
"Never mind. Start from the beginning
And keep your eyes on the music."

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