Oh, where abides the fond kazoo, The barrel-organ fair, And where is heard the tra-la-loo Of fish horns on the air? And where are found the fife and drum Discoursed with goodliest zest? And where do fiddles liveliest hum? The west—the mighty west! Sonatas, fugues, and all o' that Are rightly judged effete, While largos written in B-flat Are clearly out of date; Some like the cold pianny-forty, But whistling suits us best— And op'ry, if it isn't naughty, Will not catch on out west. From skinning hogs or canning beef Or diving into stocks, Could we expect to find relief In Haydns or in Bachs? Ah, no; from pork and wheat and lard We turn aside with zest To sing some opus of some bard Whose home is in the west. So get ye gone, ye weakling crew! Your tunes are stale and flat, And cannot hold a candle to The works of Silas Pratt! His opuses are in demand And are the final test By which all others fall or stand In this the mighty west! |