With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Ogden Nash I submit for your reading pleasure (or whatever it turns out to be):
The Opera House
Come inside, Mr. Bird said the mouse
And I will show you what’s inside an opera house.
An opera house has things like stairs,
Elevators and soft cushy chairs,
But don’t sit too long or ushers will stare.
Around the pillars and down the halls
There is more to see behind these walls.
On the stage, there is much to do
Before the productions are finally through.
There are ropes, ladders, and scaffolding galore,
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.
In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.
Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.
From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.
Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.
An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.
Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.
Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.
Composers recollected from times long past
Now drift through air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so,
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.
An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.
Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.
Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.
Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.
© 30 October 2011
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.
In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.
Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.
From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.
Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.
An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.
Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.
Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.
Composers recollected from times long past
Now drift through air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so,
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.
An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.
Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.
Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.
Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.
© 30 October 2011
About the Author
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
No comments:
Post a Comment