AT A SOLEMN MUSICK

Press, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 25270, 23 August 1947, Page 8

AT A SOLEMN MUSICK

(By WHIM-WHAM) Mr Warwick Braithwaite having pronounced the Civic Theatre the most miserable place he has ever conducted in, the City Council is terrifying ratepayers with a proposal to build a Town Hall some day when Cr. Lyons has saved the other £300,000 by paring the cheese at council suppers. There’s a Frieze around the Ceiling And its freezing in the Stalls, There’s a Kind of Organ pealing Like the Plaster from the Walls; There’s a Ton of plaster Fretwork Like the Grate of an old Gas Fire; You could hang yourself in the Network Of makeshift Lights and Wire.

The Orchestra take their Places, The Audience sees with Pride How the Clarinets perch, and the Basses. Like Goats on a Mountainside. , The Fiddlers’ Fingers quiver, The Conductor waves his Anns, But the Thing that make# them shjver Is the Draught behind, not Brahms.

The Winter Weather blusters Through Doors and Floors and Clothes; Above me dangle the Lustres Like a Dewdrop from the Nose. Oh such is the Music’s Magic That I can listen still, Though harrowed by that tragic And penitential Chill.

The Darkness, as one enters. May mercifully hide Our desolate Civic Centre’s Mute, mangled Brick outside. Roll, Drums, and Cymbals clash! Blow, Brass and Woodwind, Blow! Another Blast, and the Place should crash Like the Walls of Jericho!