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The Sound of the Spheres

The Rastenberg Philharmonic had sat,
Were shuffling in their seats,
And tuning their various instruments
To play ‘The Survivor Suite'.
It had only been played just once before,
They knew they were taking a chance,
The conductor and several cellists had gone
Right after Svrili's Dance!

One moment, the baton was waved in the air,
The next, the podium was clear,
A cellist had sawed at an awful E flat
Before he had disappeared;
Then holes had appeared in the group at the front
Where cellists and violins sat,
And all that was left of the treble bassoon
Was a sandwich, under his hat.

It wasn't as if they hadn't been warned
For Borchnik appeared on the stage,
‘I scribbled this suite in a white hot heat
As I paced, in a boiling rage!
For those sitting close to the glockenspiel,
They really should cover their ears,
For once that crescendo of flute, lute and cello
Is heard - that's the Sound of the Spheres! '

Karamov turned to the audience, bowed,
Then tapped with his baton, twice,
He wouldn't be fazed to the end of his days
Though the Devil was tumbling the dice!
He looked at the fear-crazed Orchestra
Who'd heard about Borchnik's curse,
Then launched them in to The Wages of Sin
As an introductory verse!

The music was nothing like you would expect,
It capered and trilled, and it soared,
It spoke of the aeons of military might,
Of the soldier that fell on his sword,
The audience sat with their open jaws
As it thrilled and it burst into flight,
And carried them out where the planets sang
In a paean to endless night!

The music it raged, and the music roared
And it came to Svrili's Dance,
A blonde violinist took off for the door,
No way was she taking a chance!
A hole opened over a cellist's head
And swallowed the glockenspiel,
While Karamov's face went as white as the dead
When he found himself out in a field!

The Orchestra, crazed, seemed unable to stop,
The instruments sang in their hands,
The audience freaked as the piccolo peaked
And the harpsichord melted in strands,
They made for the exits in panic and fear
For the horror that waited outside,
A mammoth was leaning against the front door,
And a raptor was caught in mid-stride.

It took seven weeks for the madness to stop,
And Borchnik was run out of town,
While Karamov wanders where dinosaurs crop,
Conducting some thoughts of his own.
The Rastenberg Orchestra‘s now in recess,
Unlikely to play now for years,
The musicians agree that there isn't a fee
That would bring back the Sound of the Spheres!

poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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