I sat down at the ivory, thought I’d play a lullaby,
But it sounded more like bagpipes strangled by a passerby.
Every chord’s a new adventure, every scale a small goodbye,
The piano’s out of tune, but so am I.
So don’t blame the strings, don’t blame the keys,
It’s not just the hammers, it’s also me.
We’re both a little crooked, can’t deny—
The piano’s out of tune, but so am I.
The high notes squeak like rubber ducks, the low ones growl and groan,
Middle C has packed its bags and left me all alone.
The pedals sound like squeaky shoes that tap dance when they try,
The piano’s out of tune, but so am I.
So don’t blame the strings, don’t blame the wood,
This duet was never meant to sound that good.
We’re making modern art, or at least we try—
The piano’s out of tune, but so am I.
I serenade my neighbor, she says, “Please, for heaven’s sake—
You sound like Chopin’s ghost got trapped inside a blender shake.”
But I call it avant-garde (which is just French for “please don’t cry”),
The piano’s out of tune, but so am I.
Maybe it’s not broken… maybe it’s jazz.
…Nope, it’s broken.
So don’t blame the strings, don’t blame my hands,
We’re both misunderstood like two garage bands.
We’re disasters, but at least we harmonize—
The piano’s out of tune, but so am I.
Yes, the piano’s out of tune…
And so…am I.
