Classic Poem

If opera “flats” were done by Tintoretto,
Instead of being painted by machine,
I'd lend no ear to music or libretto,
But spend the evening gazing at the scene.

If opera “books” were written by a poet
And not the work of literary “shines,”
The band might play and I should never know it;
I'd sit content to listen to the lines.

If opera scores were more than ornamental,
Were music pure and simple, nobly planned—
Instead of being merely incidental—
I'd close my eyes and listen to the band.

But op. at best is but a combination,
It isn't this or that thing or the next;
The song but serves the scene as decoration,
The scene but serves to decorate the text.

So when to op. in raiment glad I amble,
'Tis not as music worshipper I go.
The thing that draws me is the toot enscramble—
The purple pageant of the Passing Show.