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Robert W Service - Accordion
Work rating: Low

Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time;
Of viol or of lute some make a song.
My battered old accordion, you`re worthy of a rhyme,
You`ve been my friend and comforter so long.
Round half the world I`ve trotted you, a dozen years or more;
You`ve given heaps of people lots of fun;
You`ve set a host of happy feet a-tapping on the floor . . .
Alas! your dancing days are nearly done.

I`ve played you from the palm-belt to the suburbs of the Pole;
From the silver-tipped sierras to the sea.
The gay and gilded cabin and the grimy glory-hole
Have echoed to your impish melody.
I`ve hushed you in the dug-out when the trench was stiff with dead;
I`ve lulled you by the coral-laced lagoon;
I`ve packed you on a camel from the dung-fire on the bled,
To the hell-for-breakfast Mountains of the Moon.

I`ve ground you to the shanty men, a-whooping heel and toe,
And the hula-hula graces in the glade.
I`ve swung you in the igloo to the lousy Esquimau,
And the Haussa at a hundred in the shade.
The Nigger on the levee, and the Dinka by the Nile
have shuffled to your insolent appeal.
I`ve rocked with glee the chimpanzee, and mocked the crocodile,
And shocked the pompous penquin and the seal.

I`ve set the yokels singing in a little Surrey pub,
Apaches swinging in a Belville bar.
I`ve played an obligato to the tom-tom`s rub-a-dub,
And the throb of Andalusian guitar.
From the Horn to Honolulu, from the Cape to Kalamazoo,
From Wick to Wicklow, Samarkand to Spain,
You`ve roughed it with my kilt-bag like a comrade tried and true. . . .
Old pal! We`ll never hit the trail again.

Oh I know you`re cheap and vulgar, you`re an instrumental crime.
In drawing-rooms you haven`t got a show.
You`re a musical abortion, you`re the voice of grit and grime,
You`re the spokesman of the lowly and the low.
You`re a democratic devil, you`re the darling of the mob;
You`re a wheezy, breezy blasted bit of glee.
You`re the headache of the high-bow, you`re the horror of the snob,
but you`re worth your weight in ruddy gold to me.

For you`ve chided me in weakness and you`ve cheered me in defeat;
You`ve been an anodyne in hours of pain;
And when the slugging jolts of life have jarred me off my feet,
You`ve ragged me back into the ring again.
I`ll never go to Heaven, for I know I am not fit,
The golden harps of harmony to swell;
But with asbestos bellows, if the devil will permit,
I`ll swing you to the fork-tailed imps of Hell.

Yes, I`ll thank you, and I`ll spank you,
And I`ll everlasting yank you
To the cinder-swinging satellites of Hell.
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