Rocking Glockenspiel

 

I wanted to rock on my glockenspiel

But Miss only left two bars on

Not content with a droning dum, dum, dum, dum

With my baton I bashed irrhythmically

Possessed with a dyspraxic urgency

To make music with the others

But I were playing a different song to them

Lost in a tangle of perfect pitch

And chords played out precisely

On posh violins and flutes

And other clever things

I just wanted to rock on

But the glock was snatched from me

And I was forced to play triangle

With wand to cast a tune from three gleaming sides

I carried on

Even when Miss tried to hide

Ma right at the back

Behind the cymbals lad

And the trio of discordant recorder blowers

I ting, ting, tinged my way

To the top of the tune

And before I knew it

My status was lowered again

And I was demoted to split peas

Inside a taped-up Vitalite tub

I shook and shook and shook and shook

Till the tape came undone

And the smarmy, private music lessons after school pack

Were pelted

Tiny split peas in eyes and hair and pockets and trombones

Which were fun for a minute but there’s nowhere to go

There’s nowhere lower than a split pea shaker

Except standing up front and holding Miss’ papers

And that’s how I became a sheet music stand

From standing with shiny triangle in hand

To showering assembled musicians with split peas

Not to mention the music room floor

The fourteen year old me

Wannabe glock rocker

Burned out too soon

And was no more