I use to be grand once. Shiny and reflective. Played for people on stage. A real pride and joy. Professionals commented on my notes, a breeze to hummer out the classics. Hours musicians would sit next to me on my companion friend, Stool. He’s long gone. Years flew by and we were passed on to a family. Reduced to the Chopsticks. Glory over and hello dust. The kids grew up, with no purpose or value, the woman of the house decided to “up-cycle” me. Here I am rotting outside the family business, a talking piece. Just kill me already, my tune dead.