(For all guitarists, who have been annoyed that their new £500 effects unit couldn’t sound like their old £50 one.)
The modern day minstrel welcomes change.
Each new tool, he embraces.
Then wrestles to make it sound the same,
as the tool which it replaces.
What twisted reasoning, lies within?
Such lengths, to travel nowhere?
The same goal via a different route.
So why the desire to go there?
A million options at your feet,
Laid neatly on the ground.
Yet, you filter away more than ninety per cent,
Each one vetoed from YOUR sound.
Clean rhythm, clean lead, dirty rhythm, dirty lead.
Echo, reverb, maybe chorus?
These seven parameters, cover all bases,
Any more, I’m afraid, would just bore us.
And when the tinkering is over,
and you’re ready to unveil your new tones!
When nobody notices any difference,
I hope you feel bad to the bones.
You all know what I’m speaking of.
This isn’t just a parable.
I speak in a language, close to me.
In which I feel most uncomfortable.
I have been, am, and will be that sinner.
Doomed never, to cover new ground.
Fated, out-dated, to go round in circles,
in search of that elusive sound!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem