Sits there, rots there, dies there slowly
Sheer abuse for one so holy
Initials carved into its side
By graffiti artists I can’t chide
Its guts a mess, some broken keys
The tuner begs them on his knees
To let him fix it: “Look, let’s trade:
I’ll give your school a nice upgrade:
A shiny, brand new baby grand
Swapped for this, which can’t withstand
The torture of another student.
Doesn’t this exchange seem prudent?”
Officials sat and shook their heads:
Too much tape in vivid reds.
It rests there now, a piece of junk
Which I for one can’t stand to plunk
Its strings untuned, its sound quite bad
The broken keys just make me mad
Their verdict is to be impugned:
They’ve left it with a mortal wound.