BROKEN STRING

as the woodle toddles down the steep stone steps
into the bright sunlight of a february afternoon
her teacher miss m glides over unexpectedly
with furrowed brow she relays a massage from the violin teacher
i think i know what's coming
woodle has not done her practice
woodle does not show interest in her lesson
in short woodle is not a willing pupil
as for woodle she has not a word to say for herself
she has clearly concluded
that the best policy in the circumstances is to play dumb
as miss m launches into a lecture about wasting parents' hard-earned cash
(a lecture i heartily subscribe to
although i fear it falls on deaf ears)
i mutter vaguely about bones of contention
miss m can guess little of the smouldering domestic content
in the red corner mummy guns blazing
desperate for her only child
to take her rightful place in the school orchestra
in the blue corner woodle defiant in her resistance
in the centre of the ring yours truly
unsuccessfully trying to referee
while finding it almost impossible not to take woodle's side
but losing out to the fire-breathing wrath of mummy
i fear this battle will end on a discordant note!