In good Stravinsky’s golden days,
when mimicry might well please,
a staunch neoclassicist I was,
and so obtained his LPs.
Both Bach and Brahms he’d decompose
and make both me and you sick,
but I admired his every pose
and vowed his thefts were music.
When Boulez and the avant-garde
said squeaks and squawks were assets,
I learned that great art must sound hard,
and so obtained their cassettes.
Whatever noise might blare and bawl
and make both me and you sick,
I stood resolved to love it all,
and call the rubbish music.
When Pärt discarded every note
that wasn’t weak and weedy,
on minimalists I chose to dote,
and so obtained each CD.
Composers may take different pains
to make both me and you sick,
but this one timeless truth remains:
we call the nonsense music.
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