Tony was a tubby lad,
Structured somewhat like his dad,
With sausage fingers on each hand.
He played the tuba in the band.
The notes that tubas play are few,
Their players don’t have much to do.
Prolonged inaction is their fate;
Their contribution is to wait.
The boy chewed toffee as he sat,
Which served to make him very fat.
He was addicted to the flavour,
Though the music, too, he’d savour
As he waited for his cue
To contribute a note or two.
The scheme worked well until the day
They had some symphony to play.
The cornets had the largest part,
But others, too, displayed their art,
Until they reached a haunting section;
Contemplative, sad reflection.
With eighty notes the horns would soar
The tuba, then would play……. just four.
This was Tony’s chance to shine,
And he could play those notes, just fine.
On concert day he dressed with care,
He even brilliantined his hair.
In dinner suit and black bow tie,
His tuba ’neath his arm, did try
To climb aboard the local bus,
My dear you should have heard the fuss
The driver made about that horn,
You’d think Doomsday about to dawn.
He took his place upon the stage
And turned his music to the page
Where his four notes were written, clear.
He played them to adjust his ear,
Then set his tuba upside down
Because he’d noted with a frown
The many bars that he must rest
Before the time came for his test.
To launch the work, the baton fell,
And Tony thought, ‘Oh what the hell?
It’s ages till we reach my part,
On this new toffee slab I’ll start.’
The symphony progressed apace,
And Tony chewed, as in a race.
This batch of candy, though, was tricky
For as he chewed it grew more sticky.
The cornet solo went quite fast
Oh, how he wished that it would last
A little longer. Time to eat
The rest of this accursed sweetmeat.
The horn section, with greatest care,
Embarked upon their plaintive air,
And Tony then, with great alarm
Took up his tuba in his arms.
As his four notes loomed ever near,
Poor Tony quaked with gathering fear.
He thought, ‘Oh no, what rotten luck
My jaw is now quite firmly stuck.’
But close beside him, Tony’s mate
Could see his problem, guess his fate,
And to avert the shame to come
Played Tony’s notes on his euphonium.
As Tony had a kindly friend
This story has a happy end.
~ Alan Willson
