This is the way I heard it.

The melody went round and round in the master's mind, over and over again.

A jaunty little tune, full of life, and promise.

Ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da.

It was not a tune for a funeral.

And yet, on this sad and dreary day,

it was the melody the master could not seem to shake.

Even as the string quartet filled his garden with a recwim far more suitable to the occasion,

these seventeen notes persisted, like a splinter in his mind.

Ba da ba ba ba ba ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da.

The mourners approached him with great sympathy and spoke gently.

We are so sorry for your loss, Maestro.

We know you loved him dearly.

Such a shame to be taken so young what an extraordinary talent he was.

They meant well, but their words did not assuage the master's grief.

Nor did the jaunty little tune pulled from thin air by the penniless singer three years before.

How could he have known those seventeen notes would lead to such a remarkable collaboration?

How could he have known the degree to which he would come to rely upon his talented protégé?

In moments, the penniless singer would be lowered into the ground.

And the master knew he'd be forever haunted by the seventeen notes that brought them together.

Ba da ba ba ba ba ba ba ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da ba da.

The string quartet concluded the recwim as the master pulled the poem from his waistcoat

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