Al Fredericksson

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A Flautist in a Pickle

While practising the flute one day,
I foolishly was heard to say,
That I would love to have a go
Upon the high-pitched piccolo.

My little brother, friendly soul,
Thought he could help me reach my goal;
His great idea was sure, he knew
To make my elevated dream come true.

So when my flute was put away,
And I outside had gone to play;
With Junior hacksaw, handle blue,
He neatly cut my flute in two.

Across the garden then he bounced,
With wide-eyed beaming smile announced,
“A piccolo I’ve made for you –
I thought you’d like the spare bit too!”

This severed tube that once was flute
No piccolo is, nor yet a lute.
Much shorter, and high-pitched, it’s true,
But now a tuneless, hollow flue!