She 's been to masters French and Greek, Italian and Dutch,
She 's put in years on technique and she 's put in years on touch,
She 's long on Dago music, she knows all the rhapsodies,
She 's got a pile o' nocturnes like a haystack, if y' please;
She simply dotes on Vogner; he 's the daddy of 'em all,
To hear her rave about him when th' women come t' call.
But with all her fuss an' notions, sir, I wouldn't give a prune
T' hear her play—she don't know how t' play one goldurned tune!

She sits down at th' bench an' draws a mighty, innard breath,
Then slams both hands down this way—like t' scare a man t' death!
That's the prelude, so she tells me; then it's toodle-oodle-oo,
Tweedle, tweedle, toodle, toodle, rattle, tittle, tattle, too!
Then she climbs up in the treble and she teeters on th' keys,
Like a bird upon a limb when heavy winds is in th' trees!
Down she slides into the bass part an' she hammers it like sin,
While I sit there waitin', waitin' f'r th' music t' begin.

Purty soon she strikes up somethin' like an old, familiar air,
Sort o' sweet an' full o' comfort, an' I tilt back in my chair,
Feelin' glad th' noise is over an' th' music has begun,
But she only plays a note or two an' then th' music 's done.
Bang! She strikes a bunch o' discords an' she races down th' course,
One hand a-follerin' t'other like an old, string-halted horse;
An' she murmurs: “Daddy, Daddy, ain't that harmony jist grand?
Oh, Daddy, how it thrills you if you only understand!”

Now I got my own opinion of what music orto be,
An' it ain't no bunch o' fingers teeterin' on a single key.
It's got some order to it, an' y' hear it in y'r ears
F'r days an' months, an' sometimes, if it's extry sweet, f'r years!
Y' kin gi' me Annie Laurie, played th' good, ol'-fashioned way—
Without no frills or furbelows—jes' sit down there an' play,
An' I don't ask nothin' sweeter; f'r me it's twict as grand
As any furrin rhapsody I never understand!