Prokofiev, Prokofiev, Prokofiev,
Why did he open a coffee shop?
Some coffee he spilt,
All over a man a kilt,
Which he tried to clean up with a mop.

There once was a young lass called Quate
Her music was much worth the wait
Composed for the sax
With Sothis y'relax
Does anyone fancy a date?

Rachmaninov had big hands,
A thirteenth he could span,
He wrote for this reach,
Causing a problem for pianists each,
As, unfortunately, your hands can't expand!

Schumann was the man to see
His music did make people glee
A musical mind,
however, someone did find
His death was from STD

Telemann wrote for recorder,
His music was not in disorder,
Trios, duets and canons you get,
All the more joy, the more heard.

Have you ever heard of Umbreit?
No? Well then just you sit tight
He composed for the Organ
Had a son he called morgan
Does he play organ? He might

There was a man called Verdi,
and, one day, he heard me,
singing away: his anvil song all day,
Told me I was in an absurd key!

There once was a composer called Wang!
His compositions many have sang
From the famous Britney
To our own Petra T
To his music their voices have rang

There exists someone known as Xu,
I have no idea what they might do,
Apparently they compose,
But really, who knows?
For all I know, they live off making shoes.

There once was a young man called young
It's rumoured he's very well...erm...spoken
A hit with the gals
he's plenty of pals
His world record, I hear, is unbroken

There was a man called Zellar,
Who was a peculiar fellar,
He was normal until,
He fell mentally ill,
And had to be kept in a cellar.

A US composer called Adams,
Who had lots of madams,
About Nixon he wrote,
In China on a slow boat
And was a friend of Saddams (ref his opera 'Nixon in China')

Beethoven was feeling so low
To Heiligenstadt he did go
He wrote down his will
As he felt very ill
But did he succomb?? Oh no!

His art kept him going for sure
He went on to write so much more
Thank God he survived
To write piano concerto number five
Would be a shame if he'd stopped writing at four.

Erik Satie
Was known to be batty.
Every time he saw a lady
He took off his trousers and played Trois Gymnopèdies!

(Sorry Aeolienne, but yours should have been a composer beginning with 'C')

Chopping polony in A flat
Is hard to play straight off like that,
But his 15 waltzes arn't so bad,
Except the first which drives me mad.

Once lived a man, David Barton,
He wore a shirt with a heart on,
For organ he wrote,
His students he smote,
he owned a road, which he rode a cart on.


Thats a rubbish poem i know!