The king in the courtroom boasted like a bird,
"I can sing like a Nightingale, if I stay a bit alert,
I mean alert about the notes and pitches and scales,
Heigh **! You pianist play some music that sells."

The piano made music as soft as a feather too bright,
G sharp major said the singer at sight.
"Yes Monsieur, surely and at once,"
And the king went on singing like a donkey in a trance.

Etched and wavy, and linings of link less placed tones,
The pianist went on smiling, as if the king was like a dog with all his bones,
And the courtroom listened and everyone was but happy, "there, go gentle gales."
And The king nodded to the music, as a dog wags his tail.

Everyone clapped like a good old cheers to the king,
The pianist went over to say, "Monsieur! O! Monsieur you are the only one who can sing."
The queen kissed his hand and greeted him all the way,
But it was music and the piano who had nothing else to say.

Next morning, the town knew that the king sang out loud and good,
And they told their families that all music might be dead, but not the king as it never should.