Death by Tuba

Et tu, tuba?

 

Sometimes, after I have died, I like to make the best of a bad situation by helping others to learn from my experience. Once, for instance, I died in a tuba-related accident. So I wrote a little poem that would allow others to learn from my mistake:

 

The Tuba.

They call it Le Seau Furieux

Meaning ‘The angry bucket’

In France.

Do not put any water in Le

Seau Furieux.

For it will spit it back in your face

Then growl

Like an ungentlemanly sea

Lion.

Mon dieu! Don’t put any

Rice Pudding in Le Seau

Furieux,

Even if your Rice Pudding Bowl

Is broken and your Wife

Refuses to transport it

In the capacious floral hollow

Of her maternity dress.

Even if you know that in half

An hour you will desperately crave

Some Rice Pudding, but don’t really

Feel like eating any now.

For if you put your Rice Pudding in

Le Seau Furieux

It will vomit the pale chunks up

Like John Belushi

All over your Jesus Sandals

And mock you with a

Booming Bass Honk.

But O, my scholars, my pupils,

WhatEVER you do,

WherEVER you are,

Do not, under any circumstances,

Think of Le

Seau: that is, Le Seau

Furieux,

As a suitable place to imprison your next door

Neighbour’s dog. Even after your next door

Neighbour’s dog has kept

You awake at night with its

Yippety yappety yaroo

Or its

Rawk, rawk, rawk

And of course its

Wow, wow, woop

And, lest we forget,

That one evening, when,

In a fever-fugue of sleep-deprivation,

You were convinced that it had shouted

Twiddly-dee

Through the letter-box

Five hundred times.

For, rest assured, my scholars,

My pupils,

That course of action will lead directly to you

Taking a dog in the face

At 150 knots.

And, I should add, most likely perishing

As a result.

Le Seau Furieux

Is not an appropriate place

To put a dog.

Believe me. I know.

 

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2 Responses to “Death by Tuba”

  1. oldrope Says:

    You can’t even play the tuba, I heard you and it sounded like a violin. I’m no musiciatist, but I’m pretty sure a tuba is supposed to sound like a tuba. And not a violin. At worst I’d settle for a tube. But I’m pretty sure that’s because I am incredibly excited by the sounds of tubes (especially lube tubes, though I have never known why) and not through any true understanding of what constitutes ACCEPTABLE MUSICAL PRACTICE.

    Other than that I just want it on record that the following stanza extract is amongst the finest poetry Coleridge never wrote:

    Even if your Rice Pudding Bowl

    Is broken and your Wife

    Refuses to transport it

    In the capacious floral hollow

    Of her maternity dress.

  2. johnlebaptiste Says:

    Thanks big daddy. It’s poetic because it’s true. There was rice pudding EVERYWHERE.

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