It fits her tiny hands.
Left hand up. Right hand down.
Put the beak in her mouth.
Just the tip. And then blow.
Quack! Like a duck!

The grown-ups, they hate it.
They tell her it sounds good.
Now she can make some songs,
But sometimes it will still
Quack. Like a duck!

It barely fits her hands.
After years with her descant,
A tenor feels so cumbersome —
The notes too slow to come.
Yet still upon that stage she feels
Elated — draped in the sublimity

Of Bach. Of Telemann. Scarlatti.