“Bing, bong, bam!” shouted the drum in his
rolling voice. “I’m the one who can make the most noise!”
“In your dreams,” scoffed the electric
guitar. “Plug me in and I’m louder by far.”
“Oh, what tripe!” boomed the boorish
bagpipe. “Plugged in? A wee bit o’ puff an’ ah’ll gie ye a din.”
“It’s not a matter of noise, boys,” cried
the tambourine. “Music can be nice when it’s soft and serene.”
“Humdrum!” bellowed the drum. “Music must
be loud, and most important of all, it must excite a crowd.”
“Would you keep it down!” whined the weary
clarinet. “I’ve been playing all day and haven’t had any sleep yet.”
“Yes, be quiet,” moaned the piano.” Some of
you sound like a high pitched soprano. Hush now, please. Any more noise and
you’ll waken my keys.”
“I’m so bored,” said the electronic
keyboard. “The music I make has no bounds. I’m an instrument that has many
different sounds. You cannot compete with me, for I have already won. I’m just
all of you rolled into one.”
“You think your smart, bit I’m more the
wiser,” said the old synthesiser.
“And what little noises do you have
stored?” laughed the electronic keyboard. “You are just a deity that was
revered in nineteen eighty.”
“You might be young and you can go ahead
and goad, but I once belonged to the great Depeche Mode.”
“But I’m the real star,” said the electric
guitar. “I might be revealing my age, but I once was played by the legend,
Jimmy Page.”
“Merely a strum,” mocked the drum.
“You shut your mouth, you big buffoon!
Rather the hand of Jimmy than to be banged by Keith Moon.”
The drum and the guitar clashed and fell to
the floor
And all around them was a huge uproar
Utter pandemonium in that musical store
Where it’s not always harmonious behind the
closed door
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