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Paderewski Post by :ozepro Category :Poems Author :Harry Graham Date :November 2011 Read :2680

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Paderewski

While other men of "note" have had
A certain local reputation,
They never could compare with Pad,--
(Forgive this terse abbreviation),--
Loot: Orpheus may have been All Right;
Cap: Paderewski's Out of Sight!

No lunatic, competing in
The game of Arctic exploration,
Can ever really hope to win
More pleasures of anticipation
Than he who fixes as his goal
So satisfactory a Pole.

The grand piano is his forte,
And when he treads upon its pedals,
Weak women weep, and strong men snort,
While Cuban veterans (with medals)
Grow kind of bleary-eyed and soppy;
And journalists forget their "copy."

And as he makes the key-board smart,
Or softly on its surface lingers,
He plays upon the public's heart,
And holds it there beneath his fingers;
Caresses, teases, pokes or squeezes,--
Does just exactly as he pleases.

And oh! the hair upon his head!
Hay-coloured, with a touch of Titian!
He's under contract, so 'tis said,
To keep it in this wild condition;
All those who wish for thatch like Pad's
Should buy--
(This space To Let for Ads.)

On concert platforms he performs,
Where ladies, (matrons, maids or misses),
Surround his feet in perfect swarms,
And try to waft him fat damp kisses;
Till he takes refuge in his hair,
And sits serenely smiling there.

He draws the tear-drop to the eye
Of dullest dude or quaintest Quaker;
The instrument he plays is by
The very best piano-maker,
Whose name, I hope you won't forget,
Is--
(Once again, this space To Let.)

Before the style of his technique,
The science of his execution,
The blackest criminal grows weak
And makes a moral resolution;
Requiring all his strength of will
Before he even robs a till.

Rough soldiers, from the seat of war,--
(I never understood what "seat" meant)--
Have ceased to swear or hit the jar
After a course of Rooski's treatment.
'Tis more persuasive and as sure
As (shall we say?) the Water-cure!

Thus on triumphantly he goes,--
A long succession of successes,--
And nobody exactly knows
Just how much income he possesses;
He makes sufficient (if not more)
To keep the wolf from the stage-door.

And when he plays a "Polonaise,"
(His own unrivalled composition),
The entertainment well repays
The prices charged one for admission;
But still, as ladies all declare,
His crowning glory is his hair!


(The end)
Harry Graham's poem: Paderewski

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