Before I deliver my Seventh Encore
There’s one thing I’d like to make clear—
They say I’ve brought pleasure to millions or more;
They say that my singing half won the last war
When I sang to the troops in the rear.
I’m a Dame with a name
At the peak of my fame,
I’m known as the Empress of Song.
The critics ‘bravo’—
And the critics should know—
But I cannot help feeling they’re wrong.
I’m lauded, applauded, recorded—but list’!
I’ve a musical flaw that they seemed to have missed …

I’m tone deaf;
Music means nothing to me.
It’s only the way
My accompanists play
That makes it appear I’m in key.
Stone, tone deaf;
Can’t tell a key from a clef.
I stand by the pianist watching his face,
For he’s told me to start when it gets to the place
When he’ll give me a whacking great fff in the bass,
Because I’m tone deaf …

I’m tone deaf—
Never could understand pitch!
Some people you know
Can sing ‘soh-la-tee-do’
And claim they can tell which is which!
Stone, tone deaf!
Can’t tell a B from an F.
Charles Mackerras once said ‘Now I don’t want to carp,
But if that’s a B natural played on the harp
Then you’re either B flat, dear, or bloody B sharp!’
But then I’m tone deaf!

My technique is perfect,
And likewise my larynx!
Henry Moore once sculpted
A bust of my pharynx!
While lovers of music all praise with conviction
My phrasing, my timbre, perfection of diction;
My trilling made Karajan swoon …
But I just can’t remember the tune …

I’m tone deaf.
But in most modern works for the voice
The note that I hit doesn’t matter a bit,
So it’s purely a personal choice.
Stone, tone deaf!
Musically D-E-A-F.
Though the Garden’s acoustics can often enthrall,
The Met and La Scala both soon start to pall,
So it’s nice to be back at the dear Wigmore Hall …
But then I’m tone deaf!
Yes, I’m tone deaf!

Reproduced by permission of Novello & Co Ltd