The Seated Duck
To be a solo pianist
It helps to be a Schmuck,
For no sagacious fellow wants
To be a sitting duck

A seated duck would be perhaps
A better turn of phrase,
For someone in the spotlight
Under everybody’s gaze


And that includes the barman
And the waiters, who agree,
Your hours are far too short (they think
You’re paid some splendid fee)
Tonight the gig’s in Kensington,
The piano’s painted white;
You know that’s camouflage – It means
The damned thing’s got the blight

You stroke the keys: two notes are dead
And both the pedals squeak,
The treble is way out of tune,
The action’s up the creek


But now it’s time
to set about
That keyboard’s broken grin,
Which compliments your phoney smile,
Already wearing thin
You sit – and from this moment on
You’re everybody’s butt;
The bores, the drunks, the know-alls,
And of course, the local nut!

You kick off with some ballads, bossas,

Evergreens and blues;
Forget your soul – you’re only here
To help them sell the booze


You amble through some standards:
Soon, and Have You Met Miss Jones?
A punter lurches up and asks
For ‘Something by the Stones’
You roll the blues, play Lover Man
And Here’s That Rainy Day;
‘The Beatles’ someone bellows –
So you trot out Yesterday

You’ve memorised a thousand songs?
Ye gods – that’s not enough!
You don’t know Kylie’s latest hit?
You must be pretty duff!


Requests come up for 'Small Hotel'
For 'Stardust' and 'Blue Moon',
But when you improvise, they say:
‘He doesn’t know the tune!’
You’re bugged by boogie woogie buffs
And singers who can’t sing,
And ragtime freaks who somehow always
Ask you for 'The Sting'

(But really all you need to know
Are 'Misty' and 'Take Five',
'As Time Goes By' and 'Summertime'
In order to survive)


Some nights the punters love you
And your playing seems inspired;
They hang on to your every note –
It’s nice to be admired
On other nights you’d swear you’ve got
Two fingers and eight thumbs;
It’s times like this you'll wish you had
Support from bass and drums

A fan comes up and bends your ear
H es   i n t o   S e l f- E x p r e s s i o n';
You sigh, and mumble platitudes
With well-rehearsed discretion


‘Is jazz a craft or art?’
he asks,
‘A thing of Brain or Heart?’
He means well – tell him 'jazz is craft,
But getting work’s an art!
      
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