SCHING SCHONG
Immortal Franz, in Muses' garden,
Sching, ere my Artarias harden ;
Schubert, sching thy schweetest schongs
Ere awesome alphabetic throngs -
Tinker, Telschner, drunk or schober -
Schpoil that garden, tramp all ober
Grasch where we schould be alone !
Gross und Grob, begone! I groan,
Schlechta, schoo! And schcarper, Seidl !
To try and take in tunes is idle
When Schellman, Schweighofer and Schnorr
Schout scho I can't hear the score
And misch the Maschter's modulation
Blurred by Bibl's bombination.
Pachler, peace ! And wrap up, Rieder !
I can't hear the lilting lieder ;
If your din is not diminisched
Every symphony's Unfinisched !
Ah, Schubertian schcholarschip
Is a thing I should not schkip.
Burbling, Bocklet, dabbling Bibl,
Schpill the cup and let it dribble !
Pampered Pompei ! I'd be glad
To schare in Spaun's Schubertiad,
To drink and sching and greet as crony
Pompe, Umlauff, Grob, Siboni,
To drink gemütlichkeit and chocolate
In Wien with Weissenwolff and Bocklet.
Pachler, peace ! And pardon, Probst !
Move me nearer him thou mobst;
Prokesch, be though my enlightener,
Let me bask in bright Sonnleithner;
Schwind! I schow you this for sign -
Friends of Franz are friends of mine.
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That was written by the excellent and witty essayist Paul Jennings, and can be found, amongst many other odd essays, in this cleverly- entitled book ...