All Sheep Were Once Black
thought it quite nefarious
(as he sat there all alone,
day-dreaming perfect tone)
that his rivals in Cremona,
if seeking a string-donor,
would eviscerate a cat!
Oh, he never would do that,
being fond of furry things.
So, to source his fiddle-strings,
he took his coat and hat,
murmured “Cheeaaaooow,” to his cat,
and called on friend Edmundo
(a fine basso profundo)
and after they had wined and dined,
told him what he had in mind.
“Ed, you have a flock so fine,
the best in all the Apennine.
When you take one to the butcher's
(I know the surgeons need their sutures)
but save a bit of gut for me,
to make my fiddle-strings, you see.”
Ed said, “So, you praise my sheep
to get your catgut on the cheap.
But since it's you, I'll let you have it.
. . . Ever thought of trying rabbit?”
Soon in Strad's old fiddle shop
the ringing tills would never stop,
as players clamoured to demand
the finest strings in all the land.
The worried sheep have all turned white
– but cats can walk the street at night.