"Astronomers"

There is a city, far away,
More magical than ours,
Where every virtue is more pure
But every malice mars.

There is a place, within that town,
For studying the stars,
And just beneath, upon that spot,
The city's finest bars.

The astronomers who come to work
March sternly through the horde,
And all the offers of a drink
Are quietly ignored.

One time a patron, very drunk,
Did stagger up the stairs,
And all the scholars turned as one
And swiveled in their chairs.

"My learned lads," he loudly cried,
And smote his sweaty brow,
"To see such minds, so hard at work,
Is to wish that mine knew how!"

And then he staggered off again,
And strummed on his guitar,
And wailed about requited love
So all could hear him far.

Such things afflict astronomers
Who lack the title "royal",
But still the stars befixed their minds
And kept their spirits loyal.

But budget cuts were very grim,
Astronomers were poor,
They did not have the funds to pay
To rent the upper floor.

Their telescopes are little use
When walls are in the way,
And so they knew they'd have to find
Some other means to pay.

The astonomers were sober stuff,
Not given much to drink,
But seeing where their duty lay
Not one of them did shrink.

They cast away their learned books
On music of the spheres,
And whistled up a melody
To serve their drinking peers.

Three nights a week they sing their songs
And pound upon their drums,
Then pass around their gaping hats
And reckon up the sums.

And so it is the study of
The music of the spheres
Is funded by a shrieking sound
That's painful to the ears.

          -- "dormouse"