My chair is too hard and too small for my bum.
One side has got cramp and the other’s gone numb.
Brunhilda’s sung flat since a quarter past eight
And Siegfried has made several entrances late.
The scenery wobbles, a surfeit of gin
Has affected the ear of the First Violin.
So roll on the time when the heroine goes
For her final vibrato and turns up her toes—
Though, sadly, we know she’ll not really be dead;
And just as we think we can go home to bed
She’ll rise like the Kraken and open her jaws
For a posthumous chorus and several encores.
This evening’s not over, it has to be said,
Till the Fat Lady’s sung and been certified dead.