"The Audition" by Quade Winter

Song drives you on like other loves cannot.
Fame calls for more than Talent or Ambition.
At home they want the gloss that you ain't got;
So you must go to Europe and audition.

When you're lying alone in a cheap Pension
     In a country that's totally new to you,
And your poor little mind is eight hours behind,
     You may wonder what else they can do to you,
For you landed at nine here at Frankfurt-am-Main,
     Then at customs you're standing in line all night.
Your passport gets took and they give you a look
     Like your suitcase is loaded with dynamite.
You go to change money — it looks rather funny,
     Like fugitives out of "Monopoly",
You're going through hell just to find a hotel,
     And your luggage is mashed rather sloppily.
Well, you know that you're going to give a bad showing
     Unless you can rest and repose a bit,
So you climb into bed and you cover your head
     Till your pulse sort of settles and slows a bit.
At last you find sleep, but it's not very deep
     And your dreaming is fraught with suspicion;
You are drifting away as you dream of the day
     Of your first European Audition.
In your dream you are standing out on the front landing
     Of some opera house in south Germany.
You've got papers galore for the man at the door,
     But he cannot or will not confirm any.
When it's clear that this vermin speaks nothing but German,
     Your head spins around like a weather vane.
You know nothing at all except "Du kannst mich mal,"
     "Guten Morgen," "wie geht's" and "auf Wiedersehn."
But you give him a blitz of some bits of Berlitz,
     And he loftily grants you admission.
When you open the door you find singers galore,
     And they're all of `em here to audition.
There's a Bass on the wall, two Soubrettes in the hall,
     Several Mezzos behind the piano,
Baritones on the floor, plus a Heldentenór,
     And a Coloratura Soprano.
The echoes rebound with a horrible sound,
     Like a cat being wrung through a wringer.
Like the turn of a page you are standing backstage,
     While out front they've been hearing a singer.
As they mop up the stains and remove the remains,
     They have nobody left to be thrown out there.
"Get another!", they shout, so they bundle you out,
     And you find yourself standing alone out there.
Your accompanist grins as the music begins,
     And it's clear that he's totally blotto.
You are simply aghast cause he's playing too fast
     In a key that would kill a castrato.
Your brain starts to rust and your throat is like dust,
     And you're stuck up a crick in a rowboat.
You get troubled and vexed, you forget half your text,
     And instead you sing something from Showboat,
Then "La ci darem" and a bit of Bohème,
     Baron Ochs, Rhadames, and Rosina,
Turandot, Parsifal, one you don't know at all,
     And at last "Che gelida manina".
Out of all that debris you approach the high C
     And you're sure that you're going to blow it,
But you open your eyes and you blink with surprise;
     You're awake, and how clearly you show it!
Well, your larynx is numb and you can't even hum,
     There's a mess in your throat like you've eaten your coat,
     And your right ear is deaf, and you're lost above F,
     And your famous high C is as small as a pea,
     And your breathing support is about to abort;
     Your anger and fears bring you almost to tears,
     You are sorely maligned and you've got half a mind
     To go tell them to take it and screw it!

But don't act like a slob,
     Cause it could mean a job
     The money's been spent
     So wherever you're sent,
     You just get up, go out there, and do it!