Lust in the time of Concertinas

There's a very great danger that spring has actually arrived. Critters two and four legged are getting frisky. Last year, when spring restlessness hit me hard, and there wasn't a lad I was feeding and chatting with regularly, in my weakness I fell prey to the temptation to buy a concertina. Betsy had seen one at a music store near her, and I'd sold myself on the idea even before I got there. What they had were things I came to think of as crapcertinas, because seriously, how much instrument can you get for $99? I bought it anyway. I got it home and one reed unit had fallen out and was rattling around inside the bellows. I unscrewed the ends, stuck the reeds back where they came from (they put 'em together with beeswax, amazingly) It still didn't sound great. When I took it back, they'd only let me exchange it for one with a bit better sound. I grumbled. I went to music rehearsal where Carol kindly said "Oh, I can lend you a good one." And she did, for six months. Since I had to give it back, my fingers have been itching for a good 60 button anglo concertina, and I find myself in sympathetic accord with Les Barker's Arnold.

A fortunate few in the folk world are aware of Les Barker and his poetry and recitations, moreso in England than here. Les is the font of all puns, particularly doggy ones, a dean of doggerel, and one of the single funniest smart people I know. The poetry section of my downstairs "reading room" is stocked well with Les' books with charming titles like "Roverdance" "Corgi and Bess" "101 Damnations" "Waiting for Dogot." Watching him read a poem is an adventure, frequently with needed audience participation. He's written deliciously wry parody lyrics to songs from highly traditional to do-wop, and there are several albums full of songs sung and played by some astonishing folk artists. He also writes serious poems and political poems that I would appreciate more if I followed British politics more closely.

Arnold
Les Barker

Arnold was an armadillo
And oh so in need of romance
And it chanced that one Saturday evening
Arnold went out to a dance.
The moment he walked in the room
He saw her as if he had known
She'd be there at the side of the stage
All he wanted, all in black, all alone
She was there, she was his, dressed to kill
Oh, if only his glasses were cleaner
For he was an armadillo, and she was a concertina

He struggled to make conversation
He leapfrogged from topic to topic
If only she'd say something back.
If only he wasn't myopic
Bright silver buttons in rows
From head down to toes in black leather
Could this beauty love him,
Here goes poor Arnold thought it's now or never
He could picture her head on his pillow
He'd loved her the moment he'd seen her
But he was an armadillo, and she was a concertina

You can't help but feel for the lad though
How happy poor Arnold would be
If they could make love in the shadow
And no one but no one would see
Alas, what he hoped might have been
A sweet secret was soured complete
Sex with a concertina Is rarely accomplished discrete
The dancers stopped stripping the willow
It was oh, such a loud misdemeanor,
For he was an armadillo, and she was a concertina.

Picture love as a kind of concerto
Poor Arnold his verse was unfinished
For what let everyone who was there know
A very loud C sharp diminished
Somebody said look: it's Arnold
And he ran from their scorn and their laughter
Into the darkness outside and never returned ever after
Tales of lost love dreams of love unfullfillo.
Cruel Cupid you've never been meaner,
For he was an armadillo, and she was a concertina.