/// While the Countess, a beautiful heiress,
lounges languidly out on a terrace.
The Concert her consort
plays ain’t the “Salon sort.”
She’s aware that himself he’d embarrass.
/// Though he’s practiced the French Horn for years,
he performs where nobody else hears.
When he blows, a vein bulges,
yet the Countess indulges
her beloved. (And plugs up her ears.)