And so it gained weight
The terrible state
Of a country that all played
Sad tunes in a parade
For the Queen was ill
And no hunter could kill
A horse or a ox
To even save the Queens socks
And the violonist heard
From the singing of a bird
That only the true magic
Of music so tragic
Could save her from death
And give her new breath
So he set forth again
For he had a brain
To play a few notes
That put cork in the throats
And he played night and day
And the melodies grew less gay
And he finably struck a chord
That brought great reward