Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight tale of bassoonish fear.
On the third of September, or the fifth of may, I started to choose a hobbie that day.
The trumpets, they blared, and sound drifted about. But the bassoons were all that I cared about!
Their sound was meledious, mellow, and sweet... And the feeling of its present, felt reallie neat.
But there came the problem of which I speak, When the point of intrest reached it's peak.
She didn't accept me, she thought she was to good, Even if she was only made of carved wood.
But what wood it was, from a tree of pure rose, I would have to gain her likeing, I souppose...
At first I tried bribery, conning, and shame. But it didn't take long, She hated this game.
So I gained up my courage, and walked up to her slowly, "What is your name?" I wanted to knowly.
Her wooden lips move, with fenise and grace, And the words "I'm Stella" fell over my face.
The words felt like dewdrops that I could barely see, And it was then that I knew....she was the bassoon for me!
My heart filled with joy, my lips touched her reed, The notes came out softly, though the bocal I feed
The music was beautey, sweet and so nice, And I knew on that day, she was now part of my life...
