In a pouring out of melancholy
Beethoven's frown filled the small room
Like rain. His pastoral story
A repetition of antique gloom
Go for a walk, please, mother said
And so, having finished the Sunday roast
We would trudge through snow or mud
My father loved drab places the most
I would have said no, if I could
To his bleak weekly panorama
Of a winter walk through a dark wood
Or to Tchaikovsky's sickly melodrama
But I was a kid, I had nowhere to go
His manic depression cast a long shadow
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